


Faith

by whichclothes



Series: Blindverse [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-24
Updated: 2010-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-09 03:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all">Trust</a>. Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>  The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[faith](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/faith), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Faith (1/10)**_  
**Title:** Faith   
**Chapter:** 1 of 10    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.   
**Credits: **The plot bunny is from [](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , the banner and icon are from [](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/profile)[**angelstoy**](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/) , and the betaing is by [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) . I am indebted to you all!   
**Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!   
 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000bdd53/)  
---  
  
**Warnings:**  spoilery, so highlight if you want to see 'em *non-con, torture, abuse, Giles is a dick *

**FAITH**

**One**

 

Spike was ridiculously content. Had he gained his soul Angel’s way, he’d nearly worry now about losing it. But he was in a warm bed with a thick mattress and feather pillows and sheets that had been dried out of doors and smelled of real fresh air instead of the chemical shite the detergent companies used to simulate it. In the kitchen, someone was banging pots and pans about. Most likely Rupert preparing some supper. His sensitive ears could make out soft laughter two rooms away, where Buffy and Xander’s afternoon “nap” had clearly involved very little sleeping. Spike himself was just a bit hungry—not quite enough to be worth getting out of bed yet—and his arse still retained a pleasant twinge from his early morning romp with Rupert.

He was considering whether to have a nice little kip, to rest from all the effort of waking up and all, or whether to find some clothes and see if he could annoy Rupert into just the right bit of punishment, when the phone rang. “Bugger,” he muttered. He would have ripped all the damned things out of the walls when they arrived at Rupert's country house in Bath, if it would have done any good; but of course everybody had mobile phones now as well, so the effort would only have been wasted.

With an aggrieved sigh, Spike picked up the receiver just in time to hear the beginning of the conversation. “—told McCreary you didn’t want to be disturbed, but then he said he was going to ring you himself, so I thought I’d give you a heads-up.”

“Thank you, Malcolm.” Rupert sounded not pleased at all.

“You, erm, won’t tell him I warned you, will you?”

“No. We’ll keep that our little secret.”

“Thank you, Mr. Giles. Oh, and hello, Spike. I’ve been missing sparring with you.”

Spike chuckled into the phone. “What? Your junior Watcher’s ears picked up the sound of the receiver being lifted?”

But it was Rupert who responded. “No, I expect he was simply aware what a nosy git you are.”

Spike considered being offended, but decided against it. “Been missing you as well, whelp. Haven’t kicked anyone’s arse in ages. And how are things going with that bloke you fancied—what was his name? Bagley, wasn’t it?”

Malcolm spluttered a bit and Spike smiled evilly. Apparently Mal hadn’t mentioned his little infatuation around Rupert, although someone would have to be blinder than Spike not to notice the way Malcolm stammered and stumbled and generally acted a fool every time Bagley came near.

“This is all very amusing, boys,” Rupert said, “but there’s work to be done, I believe.”

“Bye, Mal,” Spike said and hung up.

By the time he’d pulled on his jeans and a t-shirt and combed his hair and padded downstairs, Giles was leaning against the kitchen cupboard, deep in thought. Brooding. When Spike moved close, Rupert gave him an absentminded hug and a quick buss on the cheek. “There’s a mug in the microwave. Want me to heat it for you?” Rupert asked.

“No, I’ll manage,” Spike said. He pushed the buttons—he’d long since memorized the correct locations and sequence—and listened to the machine whirr. When it beeped, he took the cup out, inhaled deeply, and had a long, satisfying chug. It was fresh. In London he had to rely on hospital discards, but here  Rupert had a contact who got them nicer stuff. From willing donors, Rupert said. It wasn’t quite as nice as drinking straight from the vein, but it was the next best thing.

“I’m going to make a fry-up with some kidneys I bought at the market. Do you fancy some?”

Spike decided that Rupert was probably not in the mood right now for a lecture on healthy eating. He shook his head. “I’ll stick with vamp food tonight. I doubt the princess and her frog up there will touch the stuff either.”

Rupert set a pan on the cooker. “Apparently Xander is in the mood for the cuisine of his homeland. There was talk earlier of McDonald's.”

Spike made a face. “Don’t know how anyone can eat that rot. Horrible shite.”

There was a pause, during which Rupert probably gave Spike’s mug full of blood a significant look, but of course if he did, it was lost on Spike.

“So did you speak with McCreary?” Spike finally asked.

“I did.”

Spike resisted the urge to growl. “And?”

“I shall have to go to London tomorrow.”

Spike let out a puff of annoyance. “Fine. When do we leave?”

“You will be remaining here.”

“But—“

Rupert stilled Spike with a finger to Spike’s lips. “I have an appointment at eleven in the morning. It will be a bright, sunny day. I’ll be back here by sundown in any case.”

“Yeah? I’m remembering what happened last time you left me.”

“I’m not leaving you, Spike. It’s only a meeting. There have been some troubling events lately and I’m going to find out the details. I’ll fill you in when I return and then you can rush in headlong to my defense if necessary.” He stroked Spike’s cheek tenderly with his thumb.

“Who are you meeting? That pillock McCreary?”

“No. This is an old acquaintance. Don’t worry about it, Spike. I’m in no danger.”

Spike set his mug down and crossed his arms. “Don’t worry my pretty little head over it? Is that what you mean to say?”

Rupert clucked his tongue and drew Spike into his arms. “You’re being very impertinent today. I shall have to address that when I return from London.”

Predictably, Spike’s cock began to fill at the contact and at the suggestion, as Rupert had no doubt known it would, and Spike felt his bad temper lighten a bit. He was perfectly aware that his lover was playing him, but Rupert was so bloody good at it, and besides, Spike always lost these sorts of arguments.

Spike unfolded his arms,  wrapped them around Rupert,  tilted his head and was about to give Rupert’s ear a bit of a nibble when a pair of loud and pointed throat-clearings sounded from the doorway.

“Eww,” said Xander. “It’s kinda like catching your parents making out, only creepier.”

“Especially when you consider my parent _did_ make out with one of them, and I made out with the other,” Buffy said.

“Was more than just making out, Slayer,” Spike said, and was disappointed he couldn’t see her response to his leer.

Rupert swatted Spike’s rear. “Children, if you please.”

“What’s up, G-Man?” Xander pushed past Spike to get to the fridge.

“I’ll be in London most of the day tomorrow. You’re welcome to stay here if you wish, but perhaps you’d like to come into the city with me. You could do some sightseeing while I’m at my meeting. There are many places of historical significance, such as—“

“Shopping?” Buffy interrupted. “Is there historically significant shopping?”

Spike said, “Harrods. My mum was a tiny girl when it opened. That’s historic enough, I reckon.”

There was a brief pause, no doubt as Buffy turned puppy-dog eyes on Giles. “Fine,” Rupert said. “I can drop you off at Harrods. It’s not far from where I’ll be, actually.”

Buffy clapped her hands and Xander made a small groaning noise that probably only Spike heard.

A few minutes later, Buffy and Xander left amidst reminders from Rupert to keep his car on the left side of the road. After they were gone, Rupert sat down to eat his dinner and Spike joined him at the table with a second mug full of blood. “You trust me home alone without a minder?” Spike asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know I trust you completely under any circumstances.”

“Then why can’t I go with you tomorrow?”

“Because you don’t fit in the boot of a Mini! Do be reasonable, Spike. You’ll most likely be asleep until shortly before I’m home anyway.”

Spike wasn’t pouting. He was justifiably upset, was all.

Rupert finished his food and stood, then walked behind Spike and draped his arms around him. “We have the house to ourselves for a bit, you know. It’s over twenty minutes from here to McDonald’s and I expect they’ll get lost at least once.” He rubbed his slightly stubbly cheek against Spike’s smooth one.

But Spike refused to be mollified by offers to shag. “You’re meant to be retired. Should be drawing a pension and complaining about these children today, not off having secret meetings.”

“It’s not a secret meeting, and I am mostly retired. I just like to keep my hand in, you know.” And he trailed his hand down Spike’s chest and to his groin, where he pressed lightly on the thin denim of Spike’s flies. At the same time, he licked at the side of Spike’s neck, delicately, like a cat. Spike had to bite back a moan.

“I’ll tell you what,” Rupert purred into his ear. “I’ve heard that Ghborh demons have been prowling about near Salisbury again. Tomorrow evening after I return we can go there. I’ll wager that between you and Buffy we can scare them away for good.” He squeezed at the growing bulge in Spike’s trousers.

Spike gave up the struggle. He allowed Rupert to pull him to his feet and tug him back up the stairs to the big, drafty room they shared. Rupert pushed him down on those sweet-smelling linens and gently peeled off the clothing Spike had so recently put on. Somewhere along the line Rupert’s clothes seemed to have disappeared as well, and then Spike was on his back with the warm, comforting bulk of his human over him. Spike’s hands roamed over skin that was now as familiar to him as his own, stopping now and then to stroke with his fingertips at all the little scars Rupert had accumulated over the years, while Rupert kissed and tongued at the larger marks that disfigured Spike’s face and body.

There were times when Spike didn’t miss his sight at all, and this was one of them. Had he been able to see, he would have been watching the expressions on Rupert’s face, looking at the amazing ways their bodies touched and connected and interlocked. And that would have been lovely. But then he might have missed the nuances of the rest of his senses. Not just the feeling of Rupert moving against him, moving _in_ him—that would have been bloody hard to ignore—but the scents of soap and kidneys and onions and horses and paper and ink, and the sounds of rustling linens and skin on skin and tiny gasps and rushing blood and fast-beating heart, and the smoky-sweet taste of salt. It was all so much—all almost too much, really—and Spike’s fingers scrabbled for purchase on the slick sheets as the rest of him fell into oblivion.

Sticky and sweaty and breathless afterwards, they kissed and nipped at one another, whispering bits of poetry in a dozen languages, and as he always did when he and Rupert made love, Spike felt not only shattered but put together again.

The front door slammed and American voices rang out, arguing over whether Xander needed new clothing or not, and if so, who was to choose it. Rupert groaned quietly into Spike’s shoulder. “Oh, stop it,” Spike said. “I know perfectly well you fancy having them about again.”

Rupert raised himself up on one elbow. “It is nice to be reconciled.”

“And as soon as they return to Scotland you’ll be mooning about, wondering if they’re safe there and trying to lure them back for another holiday.”

“I don’t have to lure anyone. Some people like to visit with me, you know.”

“Yeah, well, no accounting for tastes, is there, Watcher?” Spike hissed then as Rupert’s soft, damp cock slid against his.

“I know all about your tastes, vampire,” Rupert said back, and he bit at Spike’s neck just hard enough to make Spike squirm, and to make Spike’s cock start to fill again. But then Rupert lightly slapped Spike’s flank and rolled off him. Spike listened to him dress.

“Come along, then,” said Rupert, ruffling Spike’s hair. “I expect Buffy might want to spar with you again tonight.”

Spike made a face, but only to hide his pleasure. Two nights ago he’d given the Slayer a bloody good fight despite his blindness. Perhaps tonight he might even manage to win.

 

[Chapter Two](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/148332.html) 


	2.  Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[faith](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/faith), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Faith (2/10)**_  
**Title:** Faith   
**Chapter:** 2 of 10    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.   
**Credits: **The plot bunny is from [](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , the banner and icon are from [](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/profile)[**angelstoy**](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/) , and the betaing is by [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) . I am indebted to you all!   
**Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000bdd53/)  
---  
  
 

**Warnings:**  spoilery, so highlight if you want to see 'em *non-con, torture, abuse, Giles is a dick *

**Two**

 

Sunlight was so oppressive. Not for the first time, Spike thought fondly of years spent in less wholesome places, where even at midday he could travel by tunnels and sewers. Here he was stuck inside and, although he had the telly and an iPod and a computer with special software for the blind, he was bored and restless. Rupert had given him a quick kiss when he left this morning—far, far too early by vampire standards—and there had been the clomping of feet on the stairway, and then Spike was left alone. He’d gone back to sleep for several hours and then he’d meandered about the house a bit aimlessly, opening drawers and poking through chests that likely hadn’t been unlatched since Rupert was a child. He didn’t find much of anything.

It was slightly past dusk when he finally heard the Mini chugging up the drive. He had to restrain himself from just throwing himself at Rupert when they came in, since he wanted to keep some small crumbs of his dignity. Buffy and Xander were talking and laughing. By the rustling paper sounds they made, he judged that they were bearing several shopping bags. Rupert, though, was quiet, and met Spike’s kiss with a distracted pat on the back.

“So your meeting went well, then?” Spike asked. “Problems all sorted?”

“I just got home, Spike. Do give me a moment to recuperate.” He sounded very irritable, but then so would Spike be, after having been stuck on the M4 in a tiny car with the Slayer and her boy.

“All right. Want me to make you something to eat?” Spike had been practicing making his way around the kitchen, partly because he liked to help care for Rupert once in a while and partly because it gave him something to do. He wasn’t exactly Wolfgang Puck, but he could manage a few simple things without burning down the house.

“No. I’m not hungry.”

Buffy and Xander went upstairs, presumably to put away their purchases, and then so did Rupert. Spike trailed along behind and sat on the bed as Rupert took off his suit and hung it up and pulled on something more casual. With a heavy sigh, Rupert collapsed into the armchair beside the bed. Spike waited.

After a few long minutes, Rupert said, “Yes? What do you want?”

“You want to tell me about it now?”

“No. I don’t. It’s really nothing to do with you, Spike.”

“Right.” Spike stood. “Are we leaving now?”

“Leaving for what?”

“Salisbury. You said—“

“Yes, yes. I know what I said. Look, today has been rather trying and I’m tired. Not all of us have eternal youth to draw on, you know. And you don’t need me anyhow. You and Buffy will be fine on your own.”

“But—“ Spike began, and then stopped. Rupert did sound exhausted. “It’s fine. We can go another time. There will always be demons, I reckon.”

“No, go ahead without me. Buffy and Xander are returning to Scotland tomorrow evening, remember? And that problem in Salisbury ought to be taken care of quickly.”

“Yeah. All right, then.” Spike left Rupert in the bedroom and walked down the hall to the guest room, where he stood in the open doorway. Buffy and Xander were in the middle of gossiping about one of the baby Slayers, a girl called Ylissa, and he leaned against the doorframe and listened for a few minutes.

Finally, Xander asked, “What’s up, Bleachboy?”

Spike didn’t even bristle at the name. He was used to it, and besides, he rather had the impression that with Xander it was only a friendly little tease. “Fancy a fight?”

“I thought I kicked your ass enough the other day,” Buffy said.

“Oi! I was holding back, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, old story, Spike.”

Spike rolled his eyes. He wondered how it looked with the lenses all cloudy. “I didn’t actually mean fighting with me, you silly bint. Rupert says there are some nasties that need killing not too far away. Thought you’d fancy joining me.”

She walked closer to him. “Sounds like fun. Giles coming?”

“No. He…he says he’s knackered.”

“Yeah, he did look pretty wiped,” Xander added.

“Well, I better change, then. Go away, Spike.”

He leered. “Why? Can’t see anything anyway, can I?”

Xander threw his arm around Spike’s shoulders. “C’mon. If you don’t leave we’ll be here all night.”

Spike let Xander lead him down the stairs. “You’re coming as well?” Spike asked.

“I guess so. Personally, I’d be happy to pass on the slayage. But somebody’s gotta play chauffeur.”

“Buffy can drive, can’t she?”

Xander barked out a laugh. “Seriously? I’d rather have you behind the wheel than her.”

 

***

 

It took about an hour to get to Salisbury, during which Spike and Xander argued over what to listen to on the radio. Buffy complained most of the time about being crammed in the back seat, but she had the shortest legs among them so it was only fair.

“So what’s the deal with you and Giles?” Buffy asked somewhere around Warminster. “Are you two, like, a couple of old retired guys now? Is Giles gonna take up gardening or something? ‘Cause I think that’d bore him out of his skull, and I can’t imagine you spending your days at the vampire Elks Lodge.”

“We’re on holiday, I expect. Rupert’s talked about finding a position at a museum, perhaps. I’ll go wherever he does.”

“You’re pretty stuck on him.” She sounded thoughtful, impressed even.

“I love him.”

“Because he rescued you?”

Spike shook his head. “Because he believes in me.”

None of them spoke for a long time after that, but Buffy squeezed his shoulder, just once.

The Ghborh demons had been seen recently haunting the grounds of the cathedral, so Xander parked the car just outside the wall of the cathedral close. The wooden door was closed but not locked. As soon as they entered, the strong scent of the demons hit Spike’s nose; it was sulfurous, but also smelled of dill-weed. “They’ve been here tonight,” Spike said quietly.

“What do these guys want with this place anyway?” Xander asked. “Doesn’t look like there’s much here. Except the church, and demony types don’t generally have much to do with them.”

Spike agreed about the church bit. Just the nearness of all those crosses made his skin crawl. “This is a place of power. There are quite a few in the area. Ancient people knew that and built things—Stonehenge, Avebury Henge, Silbury Hill, all that. It’s no accident the cathedral is just here, either, I’d wager.

“So these demons want to build a circle of rocks?”

“No, berk. What they want is to have their little Ghborh babies here.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

Spike nearly tripped over a stone, but caught himself. They were getting closer to the towering edifice; he could tell by the way the sounds echoed off it. “Ghborh offspring look rather like slugs. They crawl their way to the nearest human, enter the human’s head through the ears, and then parasitize the brain.”

“Ew,” said Buffy.

“Eventually they control the host human completely.”

“Like the eels in _The Wrath of Khan_,” Xander said, and Spike pretended he didn’t know exactly what the whelp was talking about.

By then they’d followed the odor around the building, behind the cloisters, to a small stand of trees. Spike lifted his head and cast about like a scent-hound, and set off to the right. Buffy and Xander followed closely.

“You there! What are you doing here? The grounds are closed.” Footsteps approached; four sets, he believed. A man came up very close. He reeked of spoiled eggs and pickles. “Leave immediately or I shall call the police!”

“Sorry, mate,” Spike said. “They’re visiting from the States, you see, and they wanted to have a look-see at the Magna Carta. I told them things would be closed at this hour but they wouldn’t listen. You know how bloody stubborn Yanks are.”

“Who are you people?” That was a woman’s voice.

“Told you. Tourists.”

“Is there a gift shop here?” Xander said. “And a bathroom? Oh—sorry. A _loo_. Man, nobody told me you could get Montezuma’s Revenge in England!”

The little crowd came even closer. “Buffy?” Spike said. “It’s time.”

They fought then. It wasn’t much of a match, really—the bodies the demons possessed were only human, after all. By the sound of things, even Xander got in a few good blows. Within a very short time, all four of the people lay on the ground, bleeding and broken. Spike couldn’t see the demons when they crawled back out of their hosts’ craniums, but Xander and Buffy could, and amid exclamations of “Gross!” and “Ugh!” the two of them squashed the demons thoroughly under their boots.

“Is there anything we can do for these people?” Buffy asked when they were done.

“No. They’re dead, love. They would have died soon anyhow, if it’s any consolation. The Ghborh would have oozed out to mate, and when they did the hosts’ brains would have been irreparably damaged.”

“That sucks,” Xander said sincerely.

“That it does.”

They trooped back to the Mini, and none of them spoke during the drive back. But when they arrived back home, Spike and Buffy still felt keyed up, and they went a few rounds on the lawn while Xander watched and provided color commentary. The Slayer cracked a couple of Spike’s ribs with a few good kicks, and his useless eyes ended up swollen shut, but he got in some good blows as well, and when they called a truce she was limping and he smelled her blood.

Spike waited in the empty kitchen, sipping at some blood, until Buffy and Xander had gone upstairs. When it was quiet, he crept up the stairs as well and washed up in the guest loo, not wanting to disturb Rupert more than necessary. He stripped off his dirty, bloody clothing and crept naked down the hall. But it was all for nothing, because when he got to his room he could tell from the sound of Rupert’s breathing that the man was still awake.

“Bloody noisy,” Rupert complained as Spike crawled between the bedding.

“Sorry. We killed the demons.”

“Lovely.”

Spike reached over and stroked at Rupert’s chest, but Rupert pushed his hand away. “It’s nearly dawn, Spike, and I haven’t slept well.”

“Could make sure you sleep very well.” He scooted a little closer.

But Rupert shoved him away. “Leave me be. Go to sleep.”

Spike rolled in close again. “C’mon, old man. Could just give you a quick—“

“I said no!” This time, Rupert nearly drove him off the bed. “Sleep or get out of my bed.”

Spike huffed out a long breath. “Right.” He rolled over with his back to Rupert and arranged the pillow under his head. He waited to hear Rupert fall asleep, but Spike drifted off first.

 

***

 

Spike was alone in the bed when he woke up. He could hear voices downstairs, talking and softly laughing. Perhaps he should just stay there, he thought. Let them be. And for a time he did, but then his stomach growled and his muscles felt twitchy, so he got up and dressed and wandered downstairs.

“Oh look! The dead have arisen!” Xander said.

“Nocturnal, remember?” Spike said without heat. He was still limping a bit from his fight with Buffy. He walked over to the microwave, but it was empty, so he poured his own cupful of blood and heated it up, and then joined the others at the kitchen table.

“C’mon, Giles,” Buffy said, clearly picking up the thread of an earlier conversation. “We have horses there, too. And green stuff. And history! Plenty of history in Scotland.”

“I appreciate the offer, Buffy, but no. I’m quite content here.”

“Trying to lure Rupes for a holiday up north?” Spike asked.

“Trying to convince him that you guys should move up there. We could work together. One of the girls, Rose, her family owns this old castle thing. It’s kind of a mess, but Xan’s been showing us how to fix it up, and we have plenty of room.”

It wasn’t really such a bad idea, Spike thought. Rupert would be a help to them, and it would get him a bit farther from the bloody Watchers' Council. Spike didn’t much fancy living with loads of Slayers—he’d had enough of that in the last days of Sunnydale, ta very much—but if Rupert wanted it—

“I said no,” Rupert said very firmly. “I’ve work to do here.”

“Thought you were retired, G-Man.”

“The reports of my death were greatly exaggerated.”

Buffy tapped her fingers on the tabletop. “So be unretired in Scotland, Giles. There’s work there, too. There’s always work.”

Giles pushed himself away so suddenly he shook the table, and some of the blood spilled over the edge of the cup. It was warm on Spike’s fingers. “The answer is no, Buffy! Now if you’ll please stop badgering me about it, we can take a walk before it’s time to catch your train.”

Buffy muttered a bit, but dropped the argument. Then she and Xander stood as well, and they all left the room—Xander clapped Spike on the shoulder as he walked by—leaving Spike alone at the table. Rupert hadn’t said a single word to him, he realized. Spike sucked the drops off his fingers and waited for them to return.

 

***

 

They came back from their walk an hour or so before they had to leave again. They sat on Rupert’s not-very-comfortable lounge furniture and somehow Spike ended up telling some stories of his year with Angel at Wolfram &amp; Hart. None of the really painful bits, but the time Angel became a puppet, and the time Spike and Angel went to Italy and almost caught up with Buffy. Xander snorted with laughter over the puppet incident and Buffy laughed and cried at the same time. Spike felt slightly teary himself—he hadn’t really spoken much of his grandsire since Angel was dusted. Rupert sat next to Spike on the couch, not quite touching Spike, and said very little.

Spike didn’t accompany them to the train station. There was barely room for the three of them and the luggage as it was. Before they left, Buffy squeezed him tightly enough to hurt his broken ribs and Xander gave him one of those half-hug, half handshake things. After they were gone, Spike wandered about outside, tracking a fox like a hound for a time and then traipsing up a hill and sitting on a crumbled stone bench and listening to the night noises. He headed back to the house when he heard Rupert’s car returning, and they both arrived at the front door at the same time.

“Where have you been out skulking?” Rupert asked.

“’M not skulking. Just out for a stroll. You got the Scoobies off all right?”

“Yes.” Rupert’s keys jangled as he put them down on the table in the entrance hall. “I am capable of making it to the train station without incident, you know. I expect you’re pleased to have them gone.”

“Not really,” Spike said, slightly surprised. “Thought it was a nice visit. You lot seemed happy to spend some time together again.” He moved closer and put his arm around Rupert’s waist. “Don’t mind having the house to ourselves again, though,” he said into Rupert’s ear.

Rupert stood very still for a moment. Then he said, “I’ve some things to attend to down here. Go upstairs and wait for me. I’ll expect you to be ready.”

That wasn’t going to be a problem, Spike thought. Just the commanding tone of Rupert’s voice alone was enough to get him half-hard. He kissed the tender skin behind Rupert’s ear and then practically scampered up the stairs.

They hadn’t exactly been celibate while Buffy and Xander were visiting, but they had kept their lovemaking quiet and somewhat subdued. Giles hadn’t once opened the wooden chest he kept in his cupboard.

Spike stripped off his clothing quickly and efficiently, and dropped it in the laundry bin. Not only did it annoy Rupert when he left the room untidy, but it made it hard for Spike to find things, and sometimes he’d even trip over discarded towels or stray boots. When he was completely bare, Spike went to the loo and splashed some water on his face and hands, cleaning away whatever dirt he might have picked up tromping through hedgerows.

They kept a few bottles of slick in the drawer of the bedside table. Spike retrieved one of the little bottles and poured a bit on his fingers before replacing the cap and putting it away. Then he lay down on the bed and spread his legs and began to finger himself, stretching his hole with first one and then two fingers until the muscles had loosened and the passage was well-lubricated. His cock was rock-hard by then and leaking steadily, and the temptation to grab it and have a quick wank was nearly overwhelming. But he knew Rupert would prefer him desperate, and also that his release when he finally achieved it would be all the sweeter for the wait. On the other hand, it was no hardship at all to avoid touching his sac; the single bollock there still felt wrong to him and he’d handle it only if Rupert told him to.

When he was panting and nearly shivering with need, Spike withdrew his fingers and reached again for the bedside table. There was a butt plug there, a slender silicone thing that Rupert had told him was the same color as his eyes: a hazy blue, like the sky in LA. Spike inserted it, not only to keep himself stretched and ready, but also because he knew his lover liked the look of it. And then, finally, Spike snapped a cock ring around the base of his scrotum. It was made of leather and inset with little metal studs—spikes, almost.

All ready, Spike laced his hands under his head and waited.

He waited a bloody long time, in fact, until he heard Rupert’s footsteps on the stairs, then in the hallway, and finally entering the bedroom. Rupert paused for a moment, likely admiring the view, and then made his way to the cupboard. Spike smiled widely as he heard Rupert rustling about in his toy chest. The clink of metal made Spike’s cock twitch expectantly.

“Very pretty,” Rupert said, standing at the foot of the bed again.

“Come do something about it, love,” Spike said.

“Not yet.” Rupert walked to the side of the bed and took Spike’s left wrist in his hands. He snapped a manacle around it and then locked the other end to the headboard. Spike had broken three pairs of ordinary handcuffs before Rupert found these somewhere—likely at Watchers' HQ. They were meant to be demon-proof, and Spike hadn’t yet managed to break them. Rupert locked Spike’s right hand to the bed as well.

Spike was surprised when Rupert grabbed his ankle next, but he didn’t struggle as Rupert placed a cuff around it and then another cuff on the other ankle. There was a spreader bar between them, he realized, which kept his legs wide open. “This is new, pet. Did you get it in London?”

“Hmm,” Rupert grunted. He lifted up and back on the bar until Spike’s knees were bent, and then, through some means Spike couldn’t make out, attached the bar to the headboard as well. Spike was bent nearly double like this, his arse presented for Rupert’s use. Which was fine with Spike—he just wished Rupert would get on with it and use him already.

But Rupert didn’t, not yet. He did slap a few times at Spike’s arse, experimentally, but then he walked away again.

“Oi, Rupert. ‘M over here, yeah? All ready for you.”

“Not quite.” After rustling about a bit more, he approached the bed again. This time he stood close to Spike’s head and then, without warning, pressed a metal ball against Spike’s mouth. Spike automatically closed his lips and turned his head away. Although he didn’t mind restraints, he didn’t fancy gags—didn’t fancy anything that deprived him of his remaining senses. But Rupert _tsked_ at him and cupped his chin and firmly turned his face back. “Cooperate, Spike,” he said sternly. “Unless you’d prefer I just go to sleep.”

Spike wasn’t happy about the blackmail, but he really wasn’t in a position to argue. So he sighed and opened his mouth. “Good boy,” Rupert said, and buckled the gag securely into Spike’s mouth. He patted Spike’s head when he was done.

Spike couldn’t protest a moment later when Rupert pushed something thick into his ears, something that blocked most sound. He tried, though, making a muffled moaning sound, but that was cut off abruptly when Rupert swatted him hard across the arse with something that stung. A cane, he expected, but he couldn’t tell what it was made of. Didn’t much matter in any case, as Rupert hit him several times in succession. Spike enjoyed pain now and then—part of the vampire package, perhaps, or possibly just Angelus’s training. Rupert had told him once that Spike fancied being punished because it meant someone cared for him, someone was paying attention. That might have been true as well. In any case, Spike liked the way the blows felt, like stripes of fire on his cheeks, and he liked even more the way Rupert stopped every so often and rubbed at the bruising flesh, his skin cool for a change against Spike’s heat.

Just when Spike grew truly frantic, wriggling as much as his bonds permitted, thrashing his head on the pillow, groaning into the gag, Rupert stopped caning him. The mattress dipped as Rupert climbed on and, a moment later, Rupert drew the plug out of Spike’s hole. He pinched and squeezed at Spike’s arse a few minutes more and then moved up between Spike’s thighs. His cock pressed against Spike, a familiar welcome pressure, but Spike could feel cotton up against his sore skin and he realized that Rupert hadn’t removed his clothes and had only unfastened his flies.

Rupert pushed in quite quickly and immediately began thrusting at a punishing pace. His hands were on the underside of Spike’s legs, just beneath his knees, pushing Spike even farther open. Spike’s cock hungered horribly for even harsh strokes, and Rupert wasn’t taking any particular care to angle for Spike’s prostate, either.

After all that preparation and waiting, the actual shagging was over with quite quickly. The rhythm of Rupert’s pounding became erratic and then Rupert froze for a moment. Afterward, he pulled out very fast, leaving Spike feeling empty and wanting. Spike blinked as if that would clear his vision and allow him to see the man’s face, but of course all he saw was the usual—a few vague blurs, the slightly brighter light from the bedside lamp.

Rupert spanked him a few times and climbed off the bed. Spike was still hoping Rupert would do something about Spike’s need, but instead, Rupert pulled out the earplugs and unfastened the chains. Last of all, he unbuckled the gag. “Go clean yourself up,” he said.

“But aren’t you going to…. I’m still—“

“In case you haven’t noticed, Spike, the past few days have been quite trying for me. I’m exhausted and I need some sleep. I’ve much to do tomorrow.”

Spike opened his mouth again and then closed it. He sat up, wincing at the way his aching rump pressed into the blankets. Then he stood, somewhat stiffly. He heard Rupert toss the chains aside and crawl into bed.

Spike decided to try once more. “I know you’re knackered. If you like, I could wank, and you’d only have to watch. Wouldn’t mean any effort from you, you see, although you’re welcome to join in.”

“If you want to masturbate, do it somewhere else so you don’t disturb me. In fact, I want you to sleep somewhere else tonight. You toss and turn in your sleep and it keeps me awake.”

“Rupert, have I…have I done something to anger you?” Spike chewed his lip nervously. “You seem rather—“

“I _am_ rather! As I’ve said already, I need my sleep now. Leave me be.”

Confused and unhappy, Spike snatched a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around himself like a robe. He walked out of the room and toward the bedroom that Buffy and Xander had recently vacated.

[Chapter Three](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/148721.html) 


	3.  Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[faith](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/faith), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Faith (3/10)**_  
**Title:** Faith   
**Chapter:** 3 of 10    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.   
**Credits: **The plot bunny is from [](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , the banner and icon are from [](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/profile)[**angelstoy**](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/) , and the betaing is by [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) . I am indebted to you all!   
**Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000bdd53/)  
---  
  
 

**Warnings:**  spoilery, so highlight if you want to see 'em *non-con, torture, abuse, Giles is a dick *

**Three**

 

A warm hand, slightly callused at the fingertips, smoothed over Spike’s forehead. Spike opened his eyes and blinked, and for a disorienting moment he couldn’t remember where he was. Then the scent registered—Buffy and Xander—and he knew he was in the guest bed. “I’m sorry,” Rupert was saying. “I shouldn’t have been so cross with you. I was tired.”

Spike grasped Rupert’s hand in his and brought it to his mouth for a kiss. “’S all right. Are you rested now?”

Rupert sighed. “Not enough. And I’m afraid I have to return to London again, this time overnight, most likely.”

“Take me with. Please.”

Rupert pulled Spike’s hands to his mouth and kissed the knuckles of both of them. “No. We still have the daylight problem, and in any case, you’ll distract me. Stay here and I’ll return by tomorrow night.”

Spike didn’t have the energy to argue about it, not now. “Fine. But you’ll ring me?”

“Faithfully.”

“Will you tell me what’s going on?”

“It’s nothing, really. Only an ancient issue that must be dealt with again. I’ll have it sorted soon.” He released Spike’s hand and stood. “You’ve enough blood to last a few days? I can arrange for another delivery.”

“No, I’m fine. Ta.”

“You can ring McKesson if you have any problems, you know.”

McKesson was Rupert’s caretaker, stablehand, and general handyman. He lived in a cottage nearby. Spike rarely encountered him and the avoidance was mostly by design, because the man clearly didn’t much fancy vampires. But he was loyal to Rupert—apparently, his family had worked for Giles’s for generations—and could likely be counted on in a pinch. “I’ll be fine,” Spike said. “’M not a child who needs a bloody babysitter, you know.”

“I do know.” Rupert bent and kissed Spike’s temple. “I’ll be looking forward to tomorrow evening.”

Spike listened to Rupert walk down the stairs and walk into the kitchen. There were the sounds of pots and pans and then the kettle whistling, and then it was quiet for a time. Spike had almost fallen back asleep when keys jangled and the front door opened, shut, and locked.

 

***

 

Over the last 150 years, Spike had had a fair amount of free time on his hands. After all, it wasn’t as if he had to hold down a job, and even in his Big Bad days, the death and mayhem bits were generally fairly short. He’d found ways to amuse himself. Caring for Drusilla, of course. He’d long since lost count of how many lunatic tea parties he’d endured and how many conversations he’d had with Miss Edith. Aside from Dru there had been Angelus as well, for twenty years anyhow, and irritating Darla whilst avoiding her wrath had been a favorite pastime. There had been alcohol, loads of alcohol, and crap poetry he’d destroyed before anyone could read it, and eventually radio and then the telly. And there had always been books, which he’d acquired and read fairly indiscriminately.

In recent months, Spike’s options for passing the time had been more limited in some ways. Very little fighting, and Rupert wasn’t exactly much for tea parties. And of course Spike could no longer read. But Rupert was good company even when they weren’t shagging; he was knowledgeable about many things and was the first person who’d ever enjoyed listening to Spike talk about history or politics or literature. He could engage Rupert in a discussion of nineteenth century gentlemen’s clothing, which led somehow to a dialogue on Charles Darwin, which segued into speculation on the evolutionary advantages of retractable fangs, and the hours would fly by. Even when they weren’t conversing, they could just cuddle up on the couch, listening to music or with the telly on a footie match, and be content. In the evenings they’d go for walks or head down to the local for a pint or two or, every now and then, track down something nasty that needed a good arse-kicking.

They couldn’t spend every single minute together, of course. When Spike was alone he had his iPod and computer, and hundreds of audio books. It might not be the most exciting of existences, but he’d had enough excitement in his unlife to last him a good long while, and he was happier than he’d ever been. He’d thought that Rupert was as well.

The two days that Rupert was in London dragged on like two years. Rupert did ring a few times, which was nice, but he sounded distracted and their conversations were brief. Spike slept quite a bit, alone in Rupert’s bed. He tried to listen to some books but found he couldn’t concentrate, so he ended up slumped in front of the telly instead, watching the lights flicker meaninglessly.

By late in the afternoon on the second day, Spike couldn’t stand it any longer. He had to know what Rupert was up to. But he didn’t have much hope of getting an answer out of the man himself, so instead Spike punched in Malcolm’s number.

“Spike! Is Mr. Giles in trouble again?”

Spike paused and thought quickly. “Erm, no. He’s…he’s keeping busy, yeah?”

“Good. But when will you two be back? You know, I found these books stashed away in the library, and nobody’s looked at them in ages. Generations, likely. I’d wager Mr. Giles would be very interested in them. I think. My Latin’s still awfully rusty.”

“I’ll let him know, Mal. Everything else all right at HQ?”

“Yes. Well, McCreary’s all in a knot over something, but he always is, isn’t he?”

“Pillock.”

“What can I help you with, Spike?”

“Erm, could you buy a few boxes of Wheetabix and post them here? Rupert keeps forgetting to buy it, and I like to add some to my blood sometimes. Texture.”

“Certainly. Anything else I can send you from the city?”

“No. Cheers, Mal. And what about Bagley?”

Malcolm giggled like a schoolboy. “I’ll be joining him tomorrow at the British Museum. We’re meant to be looking over some Neolithic artifacts from Prissé-la-Charrière, but I’m hoping I can persuade him to have dinner or maybe a pint after.”

“That’s lovely, whelp. You’ll work your way up to holding hands in no time. All right, we’ll talk later.”

“Bye, Spike.”

Spike's stomach felt tied in knots as he put the mobile phone away. Whatever Rupert was up to, the Council seemed unaware, at least so far as Malcolm knew. And the little twit was usually on top of all the goings-on. Spike swore and kicked at a defenseless chair. There was a time he wouldn’t have stood for being left in the country, stewing over mysteries. Of course, there was a time he wouldn’t have been desperately in love with a bloody Watcher either, and even if he had, he would have blundered into the middle of things and, likely as not, bollocksed things up.

Spike paced restlessly about the house until just after sunset, when Rupert finally pulled into the drive. Spike refrained from pouncing on the man, but he did move close very quickly. And then he nearly recoiled when the scent hit him: human blood—not Rupert’s—and cigarettes and whiskey. “Everything all right, old man?” Spike asked.

“I’m fine. If you’ll let me in the door of my own house, that is.”

Spike stepped aside, and then trailed Rupert like a puppy into the kitchen, where Rupert poured himself more whiskey. He didn’t get any for Spike, but then Spike didn’t ask for it, and was perfectly capable of pouring his own. Glass in hand, Rupert pushed by Spike again and walked into the room he used as a library. Spike rarely entered there—he couldn’t read any of the books, and things were so precariously piled he was forever knocking them over. Now he stayed in the doorway, leaning against the frame as nonchalantly as he could.

“So all went well in London, then?”

Rupert sighed. “You want to help, Spike?”

“Yeah. Please.”

“Then go make me something to eat. I expect there must be something left besides blood.”

Spike bit his tongue for a moment. “Right, then,” he muttered and stomped away.

There actually wasn’t much in the way of food. Xander had nearly cleaned them out, and Rupert hadn’t gone to the shops since. But Spike was able to rustle up a cheese sandwich and an apple and some crisps. He delivered the plate to Rupert, who was still at his desk, and who grunted slightly when Spike handed him his food.

But then something went flying toward Spike and he just barely ducked in time. Crockery shattered loudly and the apple bounced back and hit Spike’s shoulder. “Bloody hell! What the—“

“I asked for food, and this is what you bring me? Can’t you manage even a simple meal?”

Spike found himself cowering back under the onslaught of Rupert’s words. “Sorry. I only thought—“

“Well, don’t! Haven’t you learnt by now not to think? You’re not any good at it, are you?”

“Rupert, I—“

“Get out of my sight. I’m working.”

Spike walked away, and he cursed himself silently for his weakness as he felt tears prickle behind his useless eyes. He wasn’t sure where to go then. To Rupert’s bedroom, which was never really his? To the guest bedroom? He wasn’t really a guest now, was he? He wasn’t hungry and he didn’t want to sit in front of the telly or his computer. So he finally found his boots, which were by the door, and pulled his duster out of the cupboard, and then went outside.

Where it had started to rain, of course, the hard, driving sort that soaked him instantly and chilled him quickly. The nearest pub was over three miles away, too far to be worth the effort in this weather. And he hadn’t any dosh anyhow, now that he thought of it. Instead he made his way to the stable. The horses whickered at him as he entered. He’d never much fancied the beasts, not even when he was human, and these had been uneasy over a vampire’s presence at first. By now, though, they tolerated one another. Spike even stopped to stroke the nose of Mage, the little bay gelding. Rupert was always fussing about how Mage was stubborn and lazy, but Spike had taken rather a liking to him.

In the far corner of the stable was a pile of blankets. Spike had sat there before while Rupert groomed the horses. Now he sat there again, leaning back into the slightly scratchy wood of the walls. He tried not to think, but instead inhaled the scents of straw and horse droppings and wet wool, and listened to the rain pound against the roof.

Perhaps Rupert had grown tired of him. It was one thing to enjoy a maimed demon for a short time, but eventually the novelty would wear off. Rupert might want a more ordinary partner, one who could travel with him by day and not scandalize his human friends. Maybe he even wanted a girl instead, someone soft where Spike was hard, someone with a warm cunt. Someone alive.

Or perhaps, it occurred to Spike, this was something else altogether. Perhaps this was another of Rupert’s little tests, the tasks he’d set up to prove—both to himself and to Spike—that Spike was capable and strong. If so, Spike was failing badly, because he only felt weak and helpless. He felt as if he were falling apart again.

As Mage snorted and puffed, and Atella and Corvus whinnied softly back, Spike reached a decision. Whether Rupert was tiring of him or testing him, the solution was the same: Spike would be very, very good. He wouldn’t annoy Rupert or badger him for information. He’d do whatever Rupert wished and prove that he might be a demon, but he was still capable of devoted, selfless love.

 

***

 

“What are you doing out here, you silly creature?”

Spike blinked awake. He’d fallen asleep sitting up, and his back was sore. “What?” he said, confused.

“Come back in the house, Spike. You’re not a horse.”

Oh. He was in the stable. Rupert grasped Spike’s arm and pulled him upright. “It’s past daybreak but there’s plenty of cloud cover. Do you want a blanket, just in case?”

Spike shook his head. “No. I’ll…I’ll be fine.”

Rupert draped his arm around Spike’s shoulders and led him out of the barn. Spike’s skin tingled a bit outside, but he didn’t ignite, or even begin to smoke. The ground squished under his boots and everything smelled of damp and decay.

They paused just inside the house and Rupert insisted on removing Spike’s still-wet coat himself, and pulling off Spike’s muddy boots. “You’re ice cold,” he tutted.

“Won’t kill me,” Spike replied before remembering that he’d meant to be perfect.

But Rupert only chuckled. “Come on. I’ll draw you a bath.”

A bath sounded brilliant. Upstairs in the master bathroom, Rupert turned on the taps and peeled off Spike’s clothing, then helped him into the bath, as if Spike were an invalid or a small child. But Spike didn’t mind, and the steaming water felt lovely. It was even nicer when Rupert picked up the soap and a flannel and began to run them slowly over Spike’s body, working as carefully as if Spike were a priceless antique.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Rupert said after a time. “This matter in London has put me under some stress, and I’ve been tired. And annoyed that I can’t be spending all my time with you, as I’d intended.”

“’S all right.”

“No. It’s not all right.” He’d reached Spike’s groin, and now he took Spike’s soft cock in his soapy hand and began to caress it. Spike let his head fall back against the edge of the bath. “It’s not all right at all. You deserve better, my boy.”

Spike groaned quietly as he hardened under Rupert’s adept handling. He liked it when Rupert called him his boy. It made him feel treasured, as if he belonged.

“I’ll promise to be more patient. Only give me a bit more space for a time, Spike, until I’ve finished with this. Then I’ll make it up to you. There’s a club in London I’ve been told about—humans mostly, but a few demons as well—and the music there is meant to be very good. Or perhaps you’d fancy a holiday somewhere?”

“Whatever you like, love. Just want to be with you.”

Rupert made an approving sort of noise and sped his strokes a bit. He knew just how Spike liked to be touched, with one finger pressing along the big vein on the bottom of Spike’s cock, and a thumb pressing every so often into the slit. He must have got rid of the flannel at some point, because his other hand toyed with Spike’s nipples, rolling over them and flicking them and tweaking them none too gently. Spike whimpered and arched up into Rupert’s fist, and very soon a warm tingle spread from his cock and ball outward towards all the nerve endings in his body, and he came, shooting his spend over Rupert’s hand and into the bathwater.

Rupert continued his movements until Spike slumped back against the bath, and then he chuckled deep in his throat. “It’s very early still for you. Shall I tuck you in?”

Spike was suddenly completely knackered. “Yeah. Please.”

Rupert helped him out of the bath and Spike stood passively as Rupert toweled him off. When he was dry, Rupert ran a comb through his hair, peppering Spike’s neck and face with tiny kisses as he did, and he patted Spike’s bottom fondly. “Fancy some blood before bed?”

“No. Ta.” He hadn’t fed for some time, but he was too tired to be hungry.

Rupert took his hand and tugged him toward the bed. The sheets felt soft against his skin. To his delight, Rupert undressed as well and then climbed into bed with him, pulled Spike close against his chest and covered them both with the blankets. When Spike snuggled back, he felt Rupert’s cock against his arse, hard and familiar.

“Don’t have to sleep just yet,” Spike said. “Unless you want to,” he added quickly.

Rupert nibbled on the shell of Spike’s ear. “I was awake anyhow. I expect my work can wait.”

Spike pressed back harder and by the time Rupert reached around to pet at Spike’s cock some more, Spike was erect again. “So lovely,” Rupert murmured. “So beautiful and eager.”

As it always did, praise made him feel slightly giddy. He’d heard it so rarely before Rupert found him and he’d lean into it the way a plant turns toward the sun. He squirmed and pressed back more, as if he could melt into Rupert’s body and become a part of him.

Rupert rocked his hips slowly back and forth, dragging his dampening cock up and down Spike’s cleft. “Please,” Spike said, surprised at how his own voice croaked. “Please, love.”

Rupert licked the nape of Spike’s neck and moved away, and Spike choked back a protest. But Rupert was only reaching for the slick, and a moment later he was tight against Spike again, this time with slippery fingers delving into Spike’s crack, stroking delicately at his most vulnerable bits, poking into Spike’s hungry opening. “Please,” Spike said again, and Rupert was entering him, stretching him, filling him. The preparation had been minimal and there was a bit of burn, but it was very welcome and Spike impaled himself as fully as possible. Rupert wrapped his palm around Spike’s cock again and resumed stroking.

“You feel so bloody right,” said Rupert. “So tight and perfect. How could I have passed so many years without this?” His free hand wormed beneath Spike and the mattress and emerged around Spike’s waist and he traced the snarl of scars on Spike’s belly. His cock was dragging across Spike’s prostate with every slow thrust, making Spike gasp and squirm as he attempted to be more deeply penetrated.

“God, please, like that, love.”

“Like this, my boy?” Rupert punctuated his question with teeth against Spike’s carotid.

Spike made a sound meant to be affirmative—the closest he could come to speech at the moment—and Rupert bucked harder into him, and faster, and he stripped Spike’s cock almost brutally, and he bit hard enough that Spike smelled his own blood just before his climax rushed through him like a summer storm.

He didn’t really notice when Rupert came as well, but he felt the familiar warm stickiness between his legs when Rupert pulled out, and that split-second feeling of emptiness, of loss. “Beautiful,” Rupert said, licking at the small wound he’d made and then climbing out of the bed. “Now sleep, my boy.”

And within a few minutes, Spike did.

[Chapter Four ](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/148751.html)


	4.  Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[faith](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/faith), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Faith (4/10)**_  
**Title:** Faith   
**Chapter:** 4 of 10    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.   
**Credits: **The plot bunny is from [](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , the banner and icon are from [](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/profile)[**angelstoy**](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/) , and the betaing is by [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) . I am indebted to you all!   
**Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Faith&filter=all).  


[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000bdd53/)  
---  
  
 

**Warnings:**  spoilery, so highlight if you want to see 'em *non-con, torture, abuse, Giles is a dick *

**Four**

 

Spike didn’t see much of Rupert over the next few weeks. Rupert made several more trips to London. Even when he was in Bath, he holed himself up in his study most of the time. Spike tried hard not to disturb him, and sometimes he was rewarded with a quick shag when Rupert went to bed and Spike woke up. They didn’t actually sleep together. Spike spent most of his time listening to audio books. He was trying to improve his cooking as well, with some degree of success. At least Rupert hadn’t thrown any dishes lately.

Mostly, Spike tried to stay out of Rupert’s way, hoping that if he managed to avoid irritating Rupert, the man would get over his ill mood. But Spike couldn’t seem to prevent being annoying. When Spike’s blood delivery arrived, Rupert complained about being interrupted by the doorbell, and about the cost of the stuff and the way it took up so much space in his refrigerator. When Spike spent the evening sitting quietly in a chair, listening to his iPod, Rupert was unhappy with the fact that Spike was just lying about when Rupert had so much work to do. When Spike attempted to help as much as he could, tidying the house up a bit, Rupert chastised him for missing dust and grime that was obvious to those who could see, or for putting things back in improper places.

Every few days, Rupert would relent a bit, however, and they’d spend an hour or two together on the couch with the television flickering in front of them. Rupert drank fairly steadily then—in fact, as far as Spike could tell from the scent of him, he was drinking most of the time—but Spike did not. The last thing he wanted now was for alcohol to allow his self-control to slip.

Perhaps because he was again sleeping alone, Spike’s nightmares returned—twisted memories of his many killings and many deaths, of burning, of dark alleys, of the place Illyria had taken him after the battle with Wolfram &amp; Hart. One morning, when he was in the grip of a particularly bad dream, Rupert shook him roughly awake. At first, Spike was relieved to be free of the evil nightmare, but then Rupert began to yell at him. “How can I work with all that bloody racket going on up here?”

“I’m…I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you. I was remembering the time—“

“I don’t care what you were remembering. Be silent or you can sleep in the stable again.”

Spike bit back a retort, and instead nodded silently. He tried not to think of how Rupert used to comfort him after nightmares, how he’d envelop Spike in his strong embrace and allow Spike to burrow his face into the crook of Rupert’s warm neck, how Spike would fill his head with the scent and sound and feel of his lover until nothing else mattered, until he felt safe as a ship in harbor. “Sorry,” he said again.

Rupert stomped out of the room and back downstairs, leaving only the lingering smell of whiskey and cigarettes in his wake. Spike wrapped his arms around himself and buried his face in the pillows.

A few evenings later, Spike went for a walk. It was a fine evening, crisp and clear. An owl called as Spike made his way down the road, and then Spike cut across a field. He had to take care to avoid tripping over unseen holes and obstacles, and so he walked a bit more slowly than he used to, but he’d learned to be confident in his other senses. At the other end of the field was a stand of trees. He moved more carefully there—it wouldn’t do to impale himself on a branch—but that was fine. Sometimes he stopped completely and ran his hands along moss and rough bark, or lifted his nose to catch the odor of a deer or a badger. He missed hunting. The occasional scraps he'd managed to get into with demons had helped, but they didn’t quite replace the feral joy of chasing after something, of catching it and feeling its heart beat wildly, of sinking fangs in and tasting the sweet flavor of terror. Hunting had felt right. It was what he was meant to do.

Now, of course, the loss of his eyesight and the addition of a soul meant he was no longer a hunter. He didn’t know what he was, really, or where he belonged. For a time he’d thought he belonged wherever Rupert was, but now, well, perhaps not.

With these unwelcome thoughts forcing their way into his head, Spike suddenly wanted to be indoors again, the familiar feel of the couch cushions underneath him. In fact, the need to be home fell upon him so strongly that for a moment he thought he might be lost. But he choked down the panic and took a few deep breaths and knew exactly how to retrace his steps.

He took only a few steps inside the house when Rupert put out an arm, blocking his movement. “Where were you?”

“Just went for a walk.”

“And you’ve brought half the countryside with you, tracking mud into my house.”

Spike sighed. “Sorry. I’ll clean it.”

Rupert laughed without humor. “You’ll clean it? How? With your special vampire dirt-sensing powers?”

“’S not my fault I’m bloody blind!”

The blow took him so much by surprise that he was knocked against the wall. He blinked in shock and raised a hand to his split lip, but Rupert was there, pressing his bigger body against Spike’s, wrapping his palm around Spike’s neck and pinning him in place. “You will not raise your voice to me, demon,” Rupert growled.

Spike could have easily pushed him away—Rupert was, after all, merely human. But Spike was still immobilized with astonishment. And then Rupert released his grip and instead brushed fingertips lightly across Spike’s cheek. “Oh, my boy. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” His voice was husky with emotion.

“Do…do you want me to go, Rupert? Have you had your fill of me?”

“Of course not!” Rupert kissed Spike’s injured lip very tenderly. “I was just concerned about you when I couldn’t find you, and I’m afraid the worry had me quite out of my mind. If you’d only told me where you were off to….”

“’M sorry,” Spike said for what felt like the millionth time. He hadn’t told Rupert he was going only because he hadn’t wanted to interrupt Rupert’s work, but Spike didn’t bother telling Rupert that now.

Rupert stroked Spike’s shoulder and down his bicep, and although Spike wanted to be angry, the contact felt so good he pushed into it, melting his chest against Rupert’s. “No need to be sorry, my boy,” Rupert said. “Next time just tell me where you’re going so I won’t fret, all right?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Good boy. Now, let’s go get you cleaned up, shall we?”

Spike nodded and kicked off his boots, then Rupert led him upstairs and drew him a bath again. While Spike soaked, Rupert fetched him a mug of blood, and it felt lovely to be in the warm water and have warm blood filling his belly.

When the bath was over, Rupert brought him downstairs. Spike was still naked, but Rupert arranged him against his own body on the couch so that Spike was nearly sitting in Rupert’s lap, and they pulled a soft blanket up over themselves. As Spike allowed his head to loll back against Rupert’s shoulder, Rupert stroked Spike’s chest and stomach and then Spike’s cock, which had hardened as soon as the gentle touches began. Although Rupert didn’t seem in any hurry, it took Spike an embarrassingly short time to come, and when he did, Rupert rubbed the semen into Spike’s skin until Spike felt sleepy and boneless.

But Rupert wasn’t finished. With nudges and a few words, he urged Spike out from under the blanket and onto the floor, until Spike knelt between Rupert’s legs, his bare skin feeling shivery in the cool room. Rupert unzipped his flies and pulled out his own cock, which Spike happily took into his mouth. He ran his tongue along the spongy flesh of the crown and sucked lightly, and then swallowed, taking Rupert deep into his throat.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Rupert said, his fingers twining in Spike’s hair. “A powerful beast at my feet with his pretty mouth around my cock.”

His words sent strange tingles down Spike’s spine. They weren’t exactly pleasant. Spike might even have pulled away, but Rupert was gripping him tightly and bucking his hips to thrust in hard. Cold tears trickled from the corners of Spike’s eyes as he reminded himself he didn’t need to breathe and he tried not to choke. His nose was buried deeply in the curls at Rupert’s groin now, and like the man himself they smelled of alcohol. Rupert thrust once more and then, with a small gasp, he came. Spike was relieved when he let go of Spike’s hair and withdrew his softening cock.

“Good boy,” Rupert said again, smoothing Spike’s hair back into place. He stood and fastened his trousers. “I’m off to sleep. You won’t disturb me, now, will you?”

Spike shook his head.

 

***

 

Rupert left for London again the following day. He said he’d be gone until Thursday, which was four days away. He kissed Spike softly before he left and promised to bring home a pressie. “My work’s very nearly done, you know. You’ve been quite patient.”

Spike could have gone anywhere he wanted once Rupert was gone, of course. In fact, he felt restless, so at nightfall he pulled on his boots and his duster and stepped outside. Halfway across the yard, though, it occurred to him that Rupert might come back early, or at least might ring the house rather than Spike’s mobile phone, and then he’d be angry if Spike wasn’t there. So Spike went back inside and listened to the telly instead.

But Rupert didn’t ring, and he still hadn’t rung by the following evening. So Spike dialed his number several times, but each time only got voicemail. For a moment he entertained the alarming notion that Rupert had gone for good, but then he chided himself for being a berk. Rupert wouldn’t abandon his family home like that. Snarling silently, Spiked punched in Malcolm’s number.

“Spike! It’s good to hear from you again.”

“Not ringing for a natter, I’m afraid. Mal, has Rupert been by lately?”

“Mr. Giles?” The boy sounded confused. “He hasn’t been here in months. Is he in danger?”

“No. Well, I’m not sure. But I don’t think so.”

“Do you want me to alert the others? We can—“

“No, don’t. Let’s keep this to ourselves, yeah? It’s only, he’s meant to be in London, but I haven’t heard from him for a bit.”

“I can check his flat, if you like. Perhaps there’s some sign of him there.”

Spike felt slightly relieved. “Yeah, Mal. That’d be brilliant.”

“I’ll run over there now. I’ll ring you when I’m there.”

After they’d hung up, Spike paced the floor. He knew it took fifteen minutes to get from HQ to the flat, and Mal might have had to first finish whatever he was doing and get his shoes and coat on. Still, it felt like bloody forever until his phone rang.

It wasn’t Mal at the other end, though. “Are you checking up on me, Spike?” Rupert asked. His voice was hard and sharp as a steel blade.

“Hadn’t heard from you. I was worried. I thought perhaps—“

“We’ve been through this already. Don’t _think_.” With a small click, the line went dead.

Spike threw the phone against the wall and stomped into the kitchen. He found Rupert’s whiskey and proceeded to get very, very drunk.

 

***

 

Two days later, it wasn’t the Mini he heard buzzing up the drive, but something with a bigger engine that rumbled to a halt in front of the house. Spike waited tensely by the door, wondering who it was. He relaxed when it was Rupert who came inside. “I’ve missed you, love,” Spike began.

But Rupert smashed into him, sending Spike slamming into the wall. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” Rupert demanded.

Confused, Spike raised his hands. “Oi! What are you going on about?”

Rupert punched him in the nose so hard that Spike’s nose cracked. “Stop with the impertinence, boy,” Rupert said, the alcohol fumes so strong Spike could smell them even with his nose smashed in.

“Rupert, what—“

This time the fist crashed into his eye, sending the back of Spike’s skull hard into the plaster. “Silence!”

Spike began to struggle. He didn’t mean to, really; it was instinct more than anything. To his astonishment and horror, however, he discovered that the palm against his chest kept him pinned against the wall. “Ru—“

Rupert hit him a third time, this time in the gut, and when Spike tried to pry the hand off him, Rupert grabbed Spike’s left arm and bent and twisted it until it cracked and Spike cried out. Only then did the palm move away from his chest, but before Spike could defend himself, another series of blows rained on him, heavy and fast, and he fell to the floor. Then Rupert began to kick him. Although Spike vamped out and tried to fight back, Rupert was too strong, or Spike was too weak. Either way, all Spike could do was cower and try to protect his most vulnerable bits.

Rupert finally stopped attacking him and took a step or two backwards. He was breathing hard. “How _dare_ you send the Council after me? How dare you?”

“Was just Mal.” Spike coughed and smelled his own blood. He rose shakily to his knees. “I was worried about you. What the bloody hell is _wrong_?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me, vampire.” Rupert kicked him once more, a vicious jolt to the ribs. Spike yelped and hunched over. “You’re what’s wrong. Get out of my sight.”

Rupert waited as Spike climbed to his feet and stood there, swaying slightly. But when Spike heard Rupert take a step toward him again, he bolted, running down the hall and out the open door.

He couldn’t run far, though, not beaten like he was. So he went to the stable again and, after he’d entered it, shut the door behind himself and leaned against it, panting. His head was a storm of confusion.

It took a long time to think clearly again. He realized by then that Rupert wasn’t chasing after him. Spike took stock of his injuries—broken nose, cracked ribs, a thudding headache that probably would have meant concussion if he were alive. His eyes were both swollen shut as well, but that hardly mattered. His left arm hung awkwardly, broken near the elbow joint. It was as bad a beating as he’d had in ages, far beyond what Rupert Giles should have been capable of. Of course, Rupert was meant to be his lover and shouldn’t have been thrashing him to begin with, but Spike’s uneasy mind shied away from that for the moment.

His first task, he reckoned, was to mend, and that would require blood. He didn’t want to re-enter the house to fetch his blood from the fridge, and, needless to say, he couldn’t just pop into the nearest grocer’s. With a sigh of resignation, Spike limped toward the stalls.

“’M sorry,” he muttered, and crept next to Mage. “Won’t take enough to harm you.” Mage leaned his neck against Spike slightly and whickered, almost as if he understood and was offering himself. Which was a bloody stupid idea, but then it had been a strange evening.

Spike wrapped his arms around that broad neck and nuzzled into Mage’s hairs. He was searching for a good vein—he wasn’t much familiar with horse anatomy. When he found one, he vamped out and then, as gently as possible, he bit.

Mage snorted and shifted his feet a bit, but didn’t try to pull away and generally didn’t seem much disturbed. Spike took several mouthfuls of blood. It tasted different to human blood, grassier and less sweet but, he decided, better than cow or pig. He’d fed not too long ago, actually, so he wasn’t especially hungry, and when he withdrew his fangs and gave Mage a grateful pat, he knew Mage would hardly miss the pint or so he’d drunk.

 Spike was already feeling his skin itch as it began to mend. He went to the sink at the opposite end of the stable and washed up, cleaning his own dried blood from his face. He patted around until he found an old shirt that smelled of Rupert, and he tore a strip from it to use as a makeshift sling. He didn’t fancy his arm mending crookedly. It was hardly the first time he’d patched himself up over the decades, and hardly the worst injuries he’d had, but when he was finished he felt drawn and empty. He collapsed onto the pile of blankets in the corner and drew one of them over his shoulders.

He couldn’t sleep, so he tried to think instead. Clearly, he couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t begin to understand what was happening with Rupert, but he’d heard the loathing in the man’s voice. Rupert didn’t want him anymore, and if Spike insisted on staying, it was only a matter of time before one of them killed the other. So Spike took stock of his options. He was barefoot, wearing only his jeans and a t-shirt. He didn’t have a penny on him, and his mobile phone was in pieces on Rupert’s floor. Besides, who would he call?

But the night wasn’t getting any younger. Spike groaned and stood. With a last scratch of Mage’s nose, he left the stable and headed toward the road.

The pavement was rough under his feet, but at least it was even. He walked toward the city. Although he didn’t really know Bath well at all, he reckoned it would be more promising than the countryside. He trudged along for three miles with his head down. The few times he heard a car approaching he ducked off the road and into the hedgerow, but none of the cars sounded like the Mini or whatever Rupert was driving now, and none of them slowed down at all.

He smelled the King’s Head several minutes before he arrived—ale and pudding and sausage—and heard the muted din of conversation and of the cricket match on the telly. He took a few deep breaths and went inside.

“Oi, Spike!” called Harry, the landlord. “What in bleeding hell happened to you?”

Spike felt his way to one of the stools and sat down. “Fell. One of the hazards of being blind, isn’t it? Always tripping over things and walking into doors.” He hoped Harry didn’t notice his bare feet, because that was harder to explain.

“You look like you could use a pint to wash away the pain.”

“That I could. ‘M a bit short on dosh, though. You won’t mind adding it to the old man’s tab, will you?”

“No worries.” Harry slid the glass across the bar and Spike took a long swallow. “But where is the old sod?” Harry asked.

“Ah, working, I expect,” Spike said as nonchalantly as possible.

“Too busy to stand his boy a few rounds, eh?”

“Yeah. I’ll have to drink his for him.”

Harry chuckled. “There’s the spirit.”

Spike quite liked the King’s Head. It was the type of place where the patrons knew each other, but mostly kept to themselves apart from a quick greeting and a few words here and there. He and Rupert had been coming here two or three times a week. If anyone cared that they were two blokes obviously together—Rupert hadn’t made any efforts to hide the fact that they were lovers—nobody said anything. Of course, nobody knew that Spike was a vampire. Rupert had told Harry that Spike was an old colleague of his, which wasn’t exactly a lie, and it seemed to satisfy the landlord, who’d asked few questions other than where Spike was from and whether he fancied some food with his drink.

Tonight Spike listened to the conversations around him and tipped back glass after glass. He knew that getting pissed wasn’t going to solve any of his problems, but he hadn’t thought of any solutions either, and at least he cared less when he was rat-arsed. For the moment, anyhow.

It was nearly closing time when panic began to set in again. Sipping at his last glass, Spike had a sudden idea. “Oi, Harry. You know of any empty buildings available for hire nearby? Doesn’t need to be much, just a roof and four walls.”

“There’s a garage just a few doors down. Old Reynolds retired and his son didn’t want to take over the place. Fancies himself too good for it, I expect. It’s been empty nearly three months.”

“Cheers,” Spike said, and stood carefully.

“You need a ride home, Spike? You’ve had quite a lot.”

“Nah. I can hold my liquor pretty well, and the cold air’ll sober me up.”

It was very brisk outside, as a matter of fact; the pavement felt like ice. Spike made his way up the street until the smell of grease and old metal told him he was likely outside the garage. He cursed under his breath, wishing he could just for one moment bloody see, but eventually he found the door and gave it a good blow from his uninjured right shoulder. It hurt his ribs, but the door gave, and he entered the building. Inside, he stumbled over some equipment and nearly fell, but he felt along the walls until he found another door, and this one led into what seemed to be a small office. An inspection revealed that there were no windows, but there were a desk and a chair and a small, smelly couch. Spike collapsed on the couch and wished he’d thought to bring one of the blankets from the stable with him.

Well, at least he was safe here for the day, and when night fell again he could decide what to do next. He didn’t know Buffy’s phone number, but he did know Mal’s, and perhaps the whelp could assist him somehow. It was something, anyhow. A possibility.

Spike got as comfortable as he could and was soon fast asleep.

He was in the middle of another horrible dream when something knocked into him. It was a terrible feeling that paralyzed his limbs. Just before he slid into unconsciousness, he recognized the sensation from several years ago when the Initiative had captured him.

Someone had tasered him.

 

[Chapter Five](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/149028.html)

 


	5.  Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[faith](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/faith), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Faith (5/10)**_  
**Title:** Faith   
**Chapter:** 5 of 10    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.   
**Credits: **The plot bunny is from [](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , the banner and icon are from [](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/profile)[**angelstoy**](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/) , and the betaing is by [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) . I am indebted to you all!   
**Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Faith&filter=all).

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000bdd53/)  
---  
  
 

**Warnings:**  spoilery, so highlight if you want to see 'em *non-con, torture, abuse, Giles is a dick *   
****

**Five**

 

When Spike groaned himself awake, his first thought was that he’d lost the last of his vision, and he began to panic. The terror didn’t much recede when he became aware that he was naked, his ankles and wrists tightly manacled and attached to chains, and his neck encased in a metal collar. He spent some time screaming and struggling and pulling at his bonds, but he only ended up with a sore throat and torn skin.

When he grew calm enough to assess his situation more carefully, he felt about. The chains were affixed to a cold concrete floor. They had enough give for him to sit or crouch, but not to stand. A stone wall was on one side of him, and elsewhere he couldn’t reach anything at all. The space he was in smelled of earth and of damp, like the crypts he’d stayed in over the years. The way the sounds echoed suggested to him that the ceiling was quite low but the room itself might be rather large.

He called out some more—hoarsely this time—but received no answer. The alcohol had worn off and his belly felt hollow, so he’d probably been out for some time. His broken arm felt mended as well. With a defeated sigh, he sat back against the wall and wrapped his arms around his shins and waited.

He had no way to track time other than his growing hunger, but it felt like he huddled there forever. Then he screamed as a light snapped on without notice, piercing his damaged eyes like hot needles. He flung his arm across his face and listened as footsteps descended into the room. He could make out slightly raspy breaths as well, and a strong heartbeat.

The footsteps stopped a few feet away from him. Spike sniffed at the air, trying to see if he recognized his captor, but he smelled blood—human blood—and quite suddenly could concentrate on little else.

“I expect you’re a bit peckish, my boy.”

The voice—familiar, beloved—chased all thoughts of feeding from Spike’s mind and sent a cold shiver down his spine. “Rupert?” To his own ears, his voice was tiny and weak.

“Tsk. First you run off, now you don’t even recognize me.” He sounded amused, as if someone had told him a funny little joke.

“Rupert, please—“

“The fun hasn’t even begun yet, and already you’re begging. Such an impatient creature.”

Rupert took a step forward and Spike pressed back into the wall, where the stone dug at his back. “What are you doing to me?”

Rupert chuckled. “Why, whatever I wish, of course. You are my boy, after all.”

“Why? I thought—“

“You thought what? That I cared for you, a filthy demon?” He snorted. “Not even so pretty anymore, are you, with those ugly scars. Well, you do still have a lovely arse, and that’s what matters, I expect.”

Spike pretended these words didn’t hurt like blades flaying his skin. “Just dust me, then.” He dropped his arm from his face and squinted up at Rupert, but could make out nothing but the slight flash of the man’s spectacles.

“Perhaps I will, when I tire of you. But for now you’re still of some worth, aren’t you? Drink this, though. You look like a bloody famine victim.” He pressed a plastic cup into Spike’s hand.

Spike didn’t truly want to drink it, not now. But it was nearly impossible for a hungry vampire to turn away from blood, and he did want to retain what strength he could. So he gulped the stuff. It was very fresh and it tasted wonderful. Although it was in a large cup, the sort commuters used to bring their gallons of coffee with them in their cars, it really only took the edge off his appetite. When he’d drained it all, Rupert snatched the cup away and set it on the floor with a small clatter.

“Now get on your hands and knees, boy,” Rupert said.

“This isn’t…. I don’t want—“

Rupert took a step forward and grabbed Spike’s hair, forcing Spike’s head back. Spike vamped out and tried to get free, but despite the feed he’d just had, he was still feeling feeble, and Rupert was terribly, inhumanly strong. Spike was held fast. “I don’t care what you want, boy. On your knees!”

Rupert wrenched Spike’s head downward, and Spike obediently scrambled onto all fours, his head hanging. He wasn’t surprised by the sound of a zipper opening, nor by slightly calloused palms pinching and squeezing at his arse. He gritted his teeth as Rupert slammed into him without any preparation at all, as it felt as if he were being split and reamed, as his own blood began to flow and ease the passage a bit. Rupert panted and grunted, and the sound of flesh slapping on flesh echoed off the walls. Then with one last, hard thrust, Rupert gasped and then stopped. He slapped Spike’s right cheek and withdrew. “Good boy,” he said, and stood. Blood and come trickled out of Spike’s hole and down his thighs; it dripped onto the floor with tiny, soft patters.

“What’s wrong with you?” Spike whispered. He hadn’t moved from the position Rupert had put him.

But Rupert only laughed, retrieved the cup from off the floor, and left. When he reached the top of the stairs, he locked the door and switched the light back off.

 

***

 

The hard floor hurt Spike’s abused body as he tried to find a comfortable position in which to lie. But the pain was nothing compared to the agony in Spike’s dead heart. It wasn’t so much Rupert’s cruelty that scoured him, although that was bad enough, but rather the fear that worried at his mind. Clearly, something had gone very wrong with the Watcher, most likely something to do with that mysterious business in London, but Spike had no idea what. Even worse, he couldn’t imagine how he could help Rupert. He couldn’t even help himself, as he remained chained in the cellar like an animal.

Eventually Rupert returned. He had more blood this time, which he handed to Spike with a gruff order to drink it. Only when the cup was empty did Spike realize he smelled blood on Rupert as well—human, but not Rupert’s—much as he had back when Rupert had first found him in that miserable flat where Illyria had left him. Spike had an inkling that the stuff he’d just drunk did not come from a willing donor.

“Clean yourself up,” Rupert ordered. He slapped a damp flannel into Spike’s hand, and then plopped a small plastic container of water onto the floor next to him. He stood very close as Spike ran the cloth over his face and then his arse, washing the dried scum from his crack and inner thighs.

“Perhaps you’d like to invite Buffy for another holiday,” Spike ventured when he was finished. It was a long shot but all he’d been able to come up with.

Rupert barked out a laugh. “Why? You think she’d fancy seeing you like this? Was this one of the games you two played?”

“I…no. You seem a bit…out of sorts, is all. Reckoned you’d enjoy her company.”

“I am anything but out of sorts, and the last thing I want is a Slayer. Do you have any other brilliant suggestions before I fuck you?”

Spike dropped the flannel into the water and knelt. “Don’t…. Let me suck you, love. Please. I’ll make it good, I promise.”

“You just don’t want me harming that tender arse of yours.”

“I like the taste of you. I like feeling you in my throat.” It wasn’t a lie, although Spike was not really in the mood for a blow job now.

Rupert paused a few moments as if he were considering Spike’s offer. “Yes, all right. I’m rather in a hurry today in any case.”

Spike scooted forward, closing the few inches between them. He reached out and unfastened Rupert’s trousers and fished out his flaccid cock. It didn’t stay soft for long, though, as Spike nuzzled at it, kissed the very tip, and then licked delicately at the glans. Rupert made a low, growling sound and pushed into Spike’s mouth. His cock dragged along Spike’s tongue and then blocked the back of his throat, so that Spike had to stop breathing to avoid choking. Spike swallowed. The thick meat filled him in a way he had always quite fancied before, but not now.

“Such a pretty little cocksucker,” Rupert said, tenderly stroking Spike’s hair. “You take it so beautifully, don’t you, like a perfect whore?”

Not only were the words cliché, but they weren’t anything like Rupert’s usual clever turns of phrase. That worried Spike as much as anything had thus far, including the fact that Rupert tasted off somehow, as if he’d eaten some strange spice that was now exuding from his pores. Spike didn’t like it. But he sucked faithfully on Rupert’s cock and, because he knew what Rupert fancied, he massaged the man’s heavy bollocks as well with one hand.

Despite the desperation of his situation, Spike’s own cock filled. It was reflex, he expected, a result of the many times he’d been in this position over the past several months, only under considerably nicer circumstances. Rupert noticed Spike’s hard-on and laughed. “See? Such a little slut.” He thrust harder into Spike’s throat, the savagery of his fucking oddly emphasized by the continuing tenderness with which he played with Spike’s hair. And then he grunted and climaxed, and Spike tasted the bitterness of his spend.

Rupert patted Spike’s head like he might have petted a dog, and withdrew, then zipped himself back up. “Good boy.”

“Rupert, please. Unchain me.”

“Why? So you can attempt to run away again?”

“No,” Spike lied. “I’ll stay. I’ll be good as gold. It’s only, I’m cold here, and the floor’s so hard, and I can’t…. I’m just here, with nothing to do unless you’re here.”

But Rupert clucked his tongue. “No, my boy. I should have done this long ago. You’re so much more agreeable this way, not always making noise and leaving messes about. You can occupy yourself thinking of ways to please me.” He patted Spike’s head one more time and walked away.

 

***

 

Rupert came back now and then to fuck Spike’s face or arse and to feed him some blood. Spike lost all sense of time and between Rupert’s visits he existed in some sort of purgatory, where all he heard were the soft clinks of his chains and his own wasted breaths. Rupert never stayed for long, either, and barely spoke to Spike beyond commands and the malicious names he called Spike while he used him. But each time he descended into the cellar—for that was where he was being held, Spike had concluded—Rupert was less and less himself. His taste in Spike’s mouth became completely different to his usual, and his treatment of Spike became more and more cruel.

Spike gave up on trying to talk to him. He gave up on nearly everything, really. It wasn’t just his captivity and deprivation that was destroying him, but also the loss of the man he’d loved and who, he’d thought, had loved him.

He was so bloody tired.

Rupert’s taste was now completely alien, and his scent wasn’t human either, but Spike couldn’t place what he was. Whatever he was now, his strength was incredible, and he could easily overcome Spike’s feeble attempts to resist him. At the same time, however, he seemed to be losing his virility. It took him longer and longer to get hard when he used Spike, until the time came when he couldn’t get it up at all. He swore and beat and kicked at Spike, as if it were Spike’s fault somehow. When Rupert stomped away that time, Spike wondered if he’d ever return.

But eventually he did. He told Spike to kneel, and Spike fully expected to feel the sharp, brief pain of a stake entering his chest, or perhaps even a blade slicing through his neck. But instead Rupert stuck a plastic straw in Spike’s mouth and ordered him to drink, and Spike did, enjoying the taste of blood despite himself. When the cup was empty Rupert pulled away the straw and then quickly, almost before Spike could react, replaced it with a gag, a thick metal bit that pressed down on Spike’s tongue and tasted of someone else’s saliva. Spike tried to get away, even though he knew his struggles were futile, and Rupert held him tightly and fastened the gag in his mouth with several metal chains. Padlocks clicked as Rupert snapped them tight.

“That’s better,” Rupert said when he was finished. Then he pushed on the back of Spike’s neck until Spike’s face was pressed against the dirty floor. Spike plastered the rest of himself to the ground as well, but Rupert swore and kicked at him, and demanded Spike get back on his knees. This left his arse in the air, of course. Rupert slapped Spike’s cheeks a few times and then, with no warning at all, jammed what felt like a very large dildo deep inside Spike’s passage. The phallus tore Spike’s tissues and he cried out, but the sound was muffled by the gag.

Rupert wrapped more chains around Spike’s hips and between his legs, securing the dildo in place. Then he flipped Spike onto his back as easily as Spike could have turned a toddler over and sat astride him, with his face towards Spike’s feet. Spike bucked and squirmed but couldn’t displace Rupert at all. He tried to claw at Rupert’s back. But Rupert put a stop to that very quickly by grabbing Spike’s scrotum and squeezing it tightly. “You’ve only one left, boy. It’d be a shame to lose it.” So then Spike was very still as Rupert locked something over his cock, something that felt cold and hard and heavy.

A moment later, he was shocked when Rupert unfastened the chains from the cuffs around Spike’s wrists and ankles. Christ, was he going to be allowed to leave? But Rupert hauled him upright—Spike hadn’t stood in ages and couldn’t hold his own weight—and dragged him over a few feet, then fastened the manacles to something that hung from the ceiling. Spike scrabbled with his toes, trying to get his feet under him, but he couldn’t quite reach. His arms ached from his weight and the cuffs dug into his skin.

He heard the crack of the whip a split second before the lash tore into his back. He and Rupert had played about with paddles and floggers, and sometimes Rupert would hit him hard enough to leave welts that would remain pleasantly sore for a day or two. But there was nothing playful about the blows that rained now on Spike’s shoulders and arse and thighs, strikes that split his skin and sent rivulets of blood running down his legs. Spike grunted into the gag and, when it felt as if his back was in tatters but the whipping continued, he screamed.

He was only half-conscious when Rupert dropped the whip onto the floor and grabbed Spike’s hips. He’d unfastened his trousers at some point, so that now he ground his hard cock into Spike’s buttocks, jamming the dildo deeper inside and leaving aching bruises with his fingertips. When he came, his warm semen spurted against Spike’s lower back and trickled down with a maddening itch.

Rupert released Spike’s wrists. Spike fell to the floor. He was barely aware as Rupert dragged him by the legs and re-attached the short chains. His last thought before he slipped away entirely was dejection over the fact the Rupert meant to leave him gagged and bound.

 

***

 

Spike could nearly look fondly back at the days when he was only imprisoned and raped. Now whenever Rupert arrived he’d remove the gag only long enough to force some blood down Spike’s throat, and then the pain would begin. Sometimes it was a simple flogging, but at other times Rupert turned to more creative tortures involving blades or holy water or electrical devices. Angelus would have been impressed by the man’s inventiveness, Spike thought, when he could think at all. And Rupert seemed only able or willing to get off now on Spike’s agony, rubbing his cock against Spike as Spike writhed or twitched or sobbed.

If Spike had thought it would do any good at all, he would have prayed for final death.

And then came a time when Rupert didn’t visit at all. Hunger gnawed at Spike’s belly and he felt his skin stretching over his bones. He lay on his side on the unforgiving floor and waited with his last dregs of hope for the coma of starvation.

When the lights went on, he buried his face in his arms and whimpered.

The hands that touched him were smaller and softer than he expected. The voice was slightly higher and more youthful, and it sounded deeply shocked. “Oh, dear Lord. What has he done to you, Spike?”

Spike, of course, couldn’t answer. Perhaps this was a hallucination.

But the voice said a few words in some archaic language and chains clinked, and someone was tugging at him, urging him to his feet. “Come on, Spike, please. We haven’t much time.”

Spike couldn’t walk on his own—he couldn’t even stand—so he leaned heavily against the mirage, which was slightly shorter than he was, and dressed in fabric that scratched lightly at Spike’s bare skin. “I’m sorry about the other locks, Spike. We can sort them when we’re safely away. Now, there are steps here, so take care.”

It was truly a Sisyphean task to climb the stairs, which seemed to last forever, and the man at Spike’s side was grunting and panting with the effort of it all, but at last they reached a door. They walked through it and Spike felt raindrops patter against him—the feeling was lovely—and smelled grass and mud and horses, and heard leaves rustle and shake.

“Just a short way to the car, Spike. We’re nearly there.” Mud sucked at Spike’s feet and squished between his toes. And then they stopped. “Here we are. It’s nearly daybreak, so I’m going to cover you with a blanket. You won’t shake it off, will you?”

Spike shook his head slightly.

He was guided gently into the back seat, which was upholstered in smooth, soft leather. He curled up on his side and, as promised, a thick blanket was spread over him from head to toe. It was fuzzy and smelled faintly of Jaffa cakes. A hand lightly patted Spike’s shoulder. “You just sit tight. We’ll be at HQ in no time at all, and I’ll call ahead and have some blood waiting for us, and some tools so I can undo the rest of the locks. My unfastening spell is rather limited, I’m afraid.”

One more pat, the slam of a car door, the muted roar of an engine coming to life, and then Malcolm was driving him away.

[Chapter Six](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/149732.html)


	6.  Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[faith](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/faith), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Faith (6/10)**_  
**Title:** Faith   
**Chapter:** 6 of 10    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.   
**Credits: **The plot bunny is from [](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , the banner and icon are from [](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/profile)[**angelstoy**](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/) , and the betaing is by [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) . I am indebted to you all!   
**Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Faith&filter=all).

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000bdd53/)  
---  
  
**Six**

 

There was some fuss involved with getting him into the building due to his naked and debilitated state as well as the sun having risen, but the details were fuzzy. He knew there was another male voice that was slightly familiar, and strong arms nearly carrying him under the shroud of the blanket, and then they were inside, where their footsteps rang in a manner he recognized. He was dragged up some stairs, hustled down an endless corridor, and then finally deposited—quite gently, actually—onto a soft bed.

“Has the blood arrived?” Malcolm asked.

“Only just,” replied the other man. “I’ve tucked it away in the library. Shall I fetch it?”

“Yes, please. And have we a bolt-cutter somewhere? I need to crack these locks.”

“Hmm. There’ll be one in the weapons room, I’ll wager. I’ll look.”

“Thanks, Oliver.”

A chair scraped softly on the floor, and Malcolm’s hand rested on Spike’s shoulder. “We’ll have you sorted straight away.” He might have continued to natter on about something, but Spike lost track of the words and allowed himself to sink back into a vague haze.

The fog cleared a bit when Mal drew the blanket away from Spike’s head and fumbled at the chains that kept the gag secured. With a few mumbled apologies, Mal managed to cut the chains and then he carefully withdrew the metal bit from Spike’s mouth. Spike tried to thank him, but his throat was too dry, and only a harsh croak came out.

“Just a mo,” said Mal, and then he stuck a wide plastic straw between Spike’s lips. Spike sucked gratefully. It was human, with the plastic taste of blood-bank packets. Not as fresh as what Rupert had been giving him, but doubtlessly less dubiously obtained. And there was lots of it, because Spike drank until his stomach felt almost bloated.

“Ta,” he managed to say when Malcolm took the straw away.

“There’s loads more when you want it. Erm, do you want me to remove the…the rest now?”

Spike sighed with the weariness of 150 years. “Yeah. Please.”

Mal said, “Oliver, could you give us a few minutes, please?” and Spike was stupidly grateful for it.

“Of course,” Oliver answered. Spike realized then that Oliver must be Bagley, the bloke that Mal had fancied, and Spike felt a small twinge of happiness for the boy.

The door opened and closed, and Mal tentatively pulled the blanket away from Spike’s body. “Do you, erm…I’m not sure….”

“Just get the bloody things off me, yeah? I don’t care how.”

“All right.” Spike could hear Malcolm’s deep intake of breath, and then the boy was doing something to the cage that encased Spike’s cock. Metal snapped. The cage opened with a rusty little squeak. Malcolm gasped at what was revealed. “Did he—“

“No. That’s from the battle with those lawyers. Rupert didn’t…he didn’t do anything permanent.” Not physically, anyhow.

Malcolm’s fingers were cold as he very carefully removed the cage. Spike hadn’t had any inclination to wank during his captivity, but it still felt good to have his genitals free again.

As Malcolm worked on the chains that held the dildo inside Spike’s arse, Spike asked, “How long has it been? How long did he have me chained up?”

“It’s been over six months since I last spoke with you.”

“Christ.” Spike shut his eyes and lolled back on the pillow. But then he lifted his head again. “Rupert. Is he…. Where is he?”

“He’s not here, Spike. He hasn’t been to HQ in months. But…let’s get you rested a bit, perhaps cleaned up, and then we can trade stories, all right? You’re safe now, at least.”

Spike wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the little Watcher-in-training assuring a vampire of protection, and to cry at the impossibility of ever feeling truly safe. But all he did was sigh again as Malcolm broke the last of the chains.

“Do you want me to, erm….”

“I can,” Spike said. He imagined the boy’s face must be nearly purple at the moment. Spike reached between his legs and gingerly pulled the phallus out. It had been stuffed inside him for so long that he felt oddly empty without it.

He held the thing uncertainly for a moment, until Malcolm said, “I’m holding a bin just next to you, Spike.” Spike dropped the dildo inside, where it made a loud, plasticky thunk.

Malcolm pulled the blankets back up, like a fussy mother tucking in her child. “If you’d fancy a wash-up, there’s a bath down the hall.”

Spike thought about it for a moment. It would be lovely to feel truly clean again—or as clean as he was capable of feeling, in any case. But the bed was comfortable and the thought of having to stand and move again was too much. “How about a kip first?” he said.

“Of course.” The chair scraped again as Malcolm stood. “I’ll leave you alone.”

Spike swallowed thickly. “Do the others know I’m here?”

“Only Oliver. Erm, Bagley, that is. You’re in my room now, and nobody ever thinks to come here. I’ll check back on you in a couple of hours, with more blood as well, all right?”

“Cheers,” Spike said, pushing away lingering feelings of uneasiness.

 

***

 

Spike’s two-hour nap turned into two days of nearly solid sleep, interrupted only briefly by Malcolm bearing more cupfuls of blood. It wasn’t until the end of the second day, when Spike finally sat upright and stretched and seriously considered getting up, that it occurred to him to wonder where Malcolm had been sleeping.

“Oh, it’s quite all right,” Mal said. “Oliver’s room’s just downstairs, and he has a lovely big bed.”

For the first time in ages, Spike smiled. “Had ulterior motives in putting me up, did you?”

Mal gave a slightly embarrassed chuckle.

“Is there anyone about, whelp? I’d fancy that bath you were telling me about.”

“It’s past ten at night, so it’s only us. I can take you there now.”

Spike soaked until the water had cooled, then refilled the bathtub and soaked some more. At long last, he pulled the drain and climbed out of the bath, then dried off with a large, soft towel Mal had left him. Mal had brought him some clothing as well, jeans and a t-shirt that looked and smelled brand new. It felt a bit strange to be clothed again.

Malcolm must have been hanging about outside the bathroom, because he nearly pounced on him as Spike emerged. “Do you feel up for a discussion now, Spike?”

“Yeah. I have questions.”

“Is it all right if Oliver joins us?”

Spike shrugged. “Why not?”

Malcolm led Spike down the corridor. The floor beneath Spike’s bare feet alternated between polished wood and thin rugs, and the only sounds were those he and Malcolm made. After descending a flight of stairs and walking down another long hall, they entered a room that Spike recognized at once from the smell of old paper and dusty leather as the library. He was pleased to be able to find his own way to the comfortable armchair where he used to sit, when he and Rupert had been here together. He collapsed down into it and wished desperately for some JD.

But perhaps Malcolm was a mind-reader, because when he returned with Bagley, he also handed Spike a full glass of whiskey, and then moved some books so he could set the bottle on the small table at Spike’s side. “Spike, this is Oliver Bagley,” Mal said a bit formally. “Ollie, this is, erm, Spike.”

“I believe we met briefly before,” Bagley said. He had a very deep voice and bit of a Scouse accent.

“We have. Before the whelp began his campaign for you.”

Malcolm squawked slightly but Bagley chuckled. “It was quite a subtle campaign, at first.”

Spike drained his glass in one long, burning swallow and quickly refilled it. “All right, then. Tell me. Is Rupert all right?”

It was Malcolm who answered. “He’s— Do you still care for him after what he’s done to you?” He sounded slightly indignant on Spike’s behalf.

“I love him,” Spike responded simply. “And it wasn’t him that did those things to me. Something’s wrong with him. He’s not himself. But where is he now?”

“At his house in Bath. I’ve placed a bit of a scrying spell there. He had a huge tantrum after you left, throwing furniture about and breaking things. Then he searched for you for a day or so, but it appears as if he’s given up.”

“Tell me what you know, and how you came to play White Knight, Mal.” Spike finished off his second glass and then just held the bottle.

“Well, you rang me, asking after Mr. Giles. He was at his flat, and he was polite enough, but something seemed…a bit off, I expect. He promised me he’d ring you himself, to tell you he was all right. After that, I didn’t hear from either of you. I was a bit worried, to be honest, but I didn’t want to intrude. I thought perhaps you two had had…a row. Something you wouldn’t want me butting my head into. I’m sorry, Spike. I should have been more persistent about it.”

Spike waved the bottle dismissively. “No need to apologize, whelp. Wasn’t exactly forthcoming when I rang, was I?”

“Well, I fretted over it for weeks, especially when I didn’t hear from either of you. I finally tried to ring you both, but your number was out of service, and Mr. Giles never returned my messages. And then, just lately, there have been rumors about him. Rumors that—“

“That he’s been up to some dark things,” Bagley interrupted. “Nobody’s caught him at anything, but he’s been sighted near several grisly murders, mostly of people who were known to be involved in magics.”

Spike rubbed at his useless eyes. He was dismayed by this news, but not surprised. “Does the Council know about this?”

“Yes,” said Malcolm. “And there are those among the Council who believe that his, erm, activities are your fault.”

“They reckon that shagging a vampire has turned him into a monster as well?”

“They do. I told them that couldn’t possibly be the case, but none of them listened to me. They never do,” he added sadly.

“I believed you,” Bagley said, and Spike had the impression there was probably some handholding involved, or at least a few lovelorn glances.

“Whelp, why didn’t you suspect me? You do recall that I’m a demon, don’t you? I’ve killed—“

“I know. I’ve read the diaries, Spike, every word. But I know you, don’t I? I’ve seen who you are now.”

“So you’d sooner believe that Rupert had gone rogue than I had?”

Malcolm cleared his throat. “Mr. Giles has…a bit of history as well. Not as extensive as yours, of course, but then he was fully human, and in possession of his soul.”

Spike knew a bit of the history Malcolm was alluding to. Rupert had told him a few tales about his misspent youth, about the days when he’d been known as Ripper, about his one-time dabbling in dark magic. And Spike hadn’t been shocked at all; from the time he’d first met the man, back when they’d been enemies in Sunnydale, Spike had sensed that there were considerably more depths to him than his tweedy librarian’s façade let on.

“Spike, the Council has been talking about doing something quite drastic with Mr. Giles. There are still some dissenters, but their voices grow fainter every time a body is found. I felt I had to step in.”

“What did you do, Mal?” The bottle was, unaccountably, empty, but Spike still gripped it tightly.

“That scrying spell I mentioned. I’m not really very good at enchantments, you know—barely passed my exams—but that particular one is a bit of a specialty of mine. My mother taught it to me. She was a Watcher as well. And then I saw you in the cellar, what he was doing to you, and….” His voice broke for a moment. He cleared his throat and went on. “I had to wait until he’d gone away to come get you, Spike. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. I never…never expected to be rescued.”

“Of course I’d rescue you! You’re my friend, aren’t you?”

Spike felt a warmth in his belly that had nothing to do with the whiskey. “I am,” he responded. “But if Rupert had found you there….”

“He didn’t.”

There was a short silence after that, as Spike rolled the bottle neck between his fingers and mulled over what Malcolm had told him.

It was Bagley who finally spoke. “You’re not safe here for long, either. Not once the Council realizes you’re here.”

Spike nodded. It was like hiding in the belly of the beast.

Malcolm said, “Your flat’s still free, Spike, the one you had to yourself for a while. Perhaps nobody would notice if you stayed there for a time.”

“Rupert might notice,” Spike said. “He knows I’ve no place else to go.”

Malcolm made a frustrated little noise and stood. He knelt beside Spike’s chair and grabbed Spike’s hand with his own warm one. “My Dad lives just outside Norwich. He has a free room.”

“And he’d fancy a vampire housemate?” Spike cocked one eyebrow.

“I told you, my Mum was a Watcher. Dad’s used to some strange things.”

Spike patted Mal’s hand with his free one. “I appreciate the offer, whelp. But I can’t just hang about like some sort of pensioner, can I? Besides, the Council will still be after Rupert, and Rupert is still…I don’t know. He needs help.”

“You know how much regard I have for Mr. Giles, Spike, but how do you propose to help him? We don’t even know what’s wrong.”

Spike nodded. He pushed Mal gently out of the way and stood, and then began to pace back and forth. To his relief, nobody seemed to have moved things about in the library, so he could walk his old customary route without tripping over any obstacles. Malcolm and Bagley remained quiet, waiting.

“Right, then,” Spike finally said, and stopped. He was standing in front of Rupert’s old spot, and could almost fancy he smelled his lover, that familiar scent he’d so loved to be surrounded in. “This began with the phone call from that wanker McCreary. What was the old sod on about?”

“I’m not sure, really. He didn’t give me any details. I take it Mr. Giles didn’t tell you much, either?”

“Only that it was some ancient matter and didn’t concern me. Do you reckon you could press McCreary for more details?”

“Perhaps,” Malcolm said doubtfully. “But he’s in…where was it again, Ollie?”

“China. An archeological dig there unearthed something he’s interested in. He won’t be back for weeks.”

Spike realized he’d been stroking along the edge of Rupert’s old chair, as if he might be able to reach just a little farther and feel the man himself. He moved his hand away and jammed it in his pocket instead. “Bring me a mobile phone, whelp.”

“Who are you going to ring?”

Spike sighed, long and loud. “Scotland.”

 

[Chapter Seven](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/150123.html)

 


	7.  Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[faith](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/faith), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Faith (7/10)**_  
**Title:** Faith   
**Chapter:** 7 of 10    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.   
**Credits: **The plot bunny is from [](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , the banner and icon are from [](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/profile)[**angelstoy**](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/) , and the betaing is by [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) . I am indebted to you all!   
**Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Faith&filter=all).

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000bdd53/)  
---  
  
**Seven**

 

For the first time in his existence, Spike was grateful to speak with Xander Harris. He’d rung Buffy’s number because that was the one that Malcolm could find, but Spike had really not been looking forward to the conversation. It might be a bit easier with Xander, though.

“Hey, Fangface! What’s up with you guys? Too good to take our calls?”

“Have you been trying to ring Rupert?”

“Well, yeah. Only about a zillion times. What the hell’s going on, Spike? We were starting to take bets on whether you’d eaten the guy, and not in the good man-on-man sex way and oh Christ, I can’t believe I just thought that about Giles. Please help me change the subject before my brain melts.”

Spike waited almost patiently for the babble to pause. “Rupert’s in trouble, Droopy.”

“Not quite what I’d hoped for in a change of subject, Spike.” There was a brief silence. “What’s up? More magic-toting Hungarians?”

“No. I’m not certain what the problem is this time.”

“Do you need help finding him again? ‘Cause Willow’s here, and she can poof straight to him, and—“

“No! No…poofing. You all need to stay clear of him for a time, you understand? He’s….” Spike chewed at his lip. “He’s dangerous.”

“Giles? Dangerous? What’s he gonna do, whack us over the head with an encyclopedia?”

Spike bit back a growl. Maybe it would have been better had Buffy answered after all. “Rupert Giles has held me prisoner nearly since you visited. He…he hurt me. Badly.”

Xander’s silence was longer this time. “Why would he do that? Are you…. Is this some kind of trick? Did you lose the soul, Spike?”

“No. ‘M not Peaches, you know. Soul’s as firmly attached as yours. And it’s no trick. I need your help. I need you to help me save Rupert from himself.” He clenched his jaw and then loosened it. “Please.”

 

***

 

Spike didn’t know what excuse Malcolm and Bagley used to get away from Watchers’ HQ. But as soon as most of the rest of the Council had left for the night—only a few of them besides Malcolm and Bagley actually kept rooms there—Mal hurried Spike through the back way. Bagley was waiting for them there with a small hired lorry. When Spike climbed into the back, he discovered that one of his young companions had outfitted it with a pile of blankets and pillows. Before he climbed into the cab, Mal pressed something into Spike’s hand—“Thought you might fancy something to help pass the time,” he said. Spike smiled broadly when he realized it was an iPod, and his smile didn’t falter at all when he switched the device on and “Holidays in the Sun” began to play.

The rattle and bump and constant stop-start motion of the lorry weren’t very conducive to sleep, but once they left the city and were zooming along the motorway, Spike dozed off. He had fitful dreams of fire and chains, of dragons and ash, of Berlin in the 1920s and New York in the '70s. When he woke up a bit, he’d hear the men in the cab talking quietly with one another, and the soft cadences of their speech would soon send him back asleep. They stopped a few times for the humans to use the loo or grab something to eat, but Spike stayed in the lorry as it was broad daylight.

But the sun was just setting as they turned down a slightly rutted drive, which they followed for a mile or two before coming to a halt. Spike climbed out of the back of the lorry and stretched. It felt good to have solid ground beneath his feet. His feet were bare, in fact, and the gravel prickled at them uncomfortably until Malcolm drew him a few feet to the side, where instead there was soft, springy grass. Close by, Spike could smell the wet-wool scent of sheep and hear them settling in for the night.

“It’s quite a large castle,” Mal informed him. “There’s a tall tower off in one corner that looks a bit rough, but the rest is nice.”

Spike said, “Lovely. Can we get this over with, please?” He wasn’t particularly looking forward to this—the only sensation as uncomfortable as being surrounded by Watchers was being surrounded by Slayers.

Their feet crunched across the drive. They entered a small covered entryway and crossed a few more feet of open space before pausing. A barbican, Spike thought. Before any of them could pound on the door, the door swung open with a creak that hurt Spike’s ears. “Spike,” said Buffy, evenly, cautiously. Apparently they still weren’t convinced he was in possession of his soul.

“Buffy. You remember Malcolm, yeah? And this is his mate, Oliver Bagley.”

There was a short round of mumbled greetings, and then Buffy said, “Come on in.”

They walked down a short corridor and then entered what seemed to be a very large hall. Voices chattered from all directions, including above him, and Spike found himself hunching protectively. Perhaps Buffy noticed, because she hurried them up some stairs—she took Spike’s arm to guide him as the steps were uneven, and he didn’t mind her small hand on his skin—and down another hall, and then into a room that was warm and smelled of wood smoke. A fire popped and crackled in one corner. Buffy led him to a chair, a big upholstered thing, and to his enormous gratitude, handed him a bottle of ale. The Watchers apparently settled themselves down as well.

Someone entered the room. “Hi, Spike. Hi, Mal.”

“Red.”

Willow patted his shoulder as she passed. Before full introductions were made, Xander entered as well, and Spike waited impatiently as Bagley met the newcomers and as all the humans made small, polite talk.

Buffy took away Spike’s empty bottle—he didn’t even remember drinking it, although he could taste it in his mouth—and gave him a new one. “Spill. What’s up with Giles, Spike?”

With occasional additions from Malcolm, Spike told them what he knew. When the Scoobies seemed a bit hesitant to believe the story, or perhaps just to grasp the seriousness of the situation, Malcolm told them of the condition in which he’d found Spike in the cellar. Not all the details, but enough to make Spike turn his head away, glad for once that he couldn’t see the expressions on their faces as they sat there in shocked silence.

“Okay, then.” That was Willow. “It seems to me that if we want to get to the bottom of this, that McCreary guy’s a good place to start.”

“Agreed, love. But the tosser’s in China, remember?”

“But I’m a powerful witch, remember? Give me a day or two to get ready and I’ll zap him here and then you can be interrogation vamp.”

For the first time in ages, Spike felt a small spark of hope. Not only did this lot care about Rupert as well, but they made powerful allies.

Buffy walked over and rested her hand on Spike’s shoulder. She’d never been quite so touchy-feely before. He wondered whether she was doing it consciously as a way of compensating for his blindness. He liked it. It was comforting.

She said, “Hey, guys. Mal and Ollie, you look kinda wiped. Xan, could you give them a whirlwind tour of the place, show them where the kitchen’s at and stuff? And then show them their rooms.”

“Erm…if you don’t mind too much,” Mal said. “Room. Just one, please. If it’s no trouble.”

Both Buffy and Willow made small squees of happiness, the type bints made when discovering a couple they thought was especially cute. “No prob,” Willow said. “We have this one room, Xander just finished fixing up the walls and stuff, and the furniture inside is all antique, with one of those beds you practically need a ladder to climb into, and there’s this view from that wing in the evenings….”

There were a few quick good-byes and then Spike and the Slayer were alone. “We’ve got a room set up for you, too. It’s this cool kind of tower thingy, with no windows except for these arrow slits. Nobody else wants to sleep there because it’s supposed to be haunted, but I figure if a ghost shows up, you can kick its ass, no problem.”

Spike found himself smiling slightly. “Ta, love. It’s better than the dungeons, I’ll wager.”

“Definitely. And how cool is it to be living in an actual, genuine castle? Kind of a change from our little place in Sunnydale, huh? But you’ve probably stayed in castles before, I guess.”

“Can’t say that I have. Crypts, factories, even a manor house or two, back in the day, but never a castle.”

“Cool.” She paused for a moment. “So I could take you to your room, if you want, but maybe you want to go for a walk or something?”

After being cooped up for so long in Rupert’s cellar, and then at Watchers' HQ and most recently in the lorry, stretching his legs out of doors sounded brilliant. He stood and she took the empty bottle from him. She hooked her arm through his companionably.

They walked down the stairs again, past more giggles and whispers, and back outside. The gravel drive prickled against Spike’s feet for only a moment, and then they were walking across springy grass. It was damp with dew and slightly squishy, but warm and somehow soothing. For some time they chatted amiably about the small details of Buffy’s life. Marshaling her small army of Slayers was hard work, but she was enjoying it, and the teams she had scattered throughout the world were doing well. It helped that they now teamed up with the Watchers more regularly, exchanging information and resources. When they weren’t fighting evil, Xander had them hammering and painting and plastering, and everyone was pleased with how things were coming along. Some of the Slayers even had a bit of a kitchen garden going.

 He asked about Dawn, and Buffy said her sister was happy. She was attending university in Italy, she had a steady boyfriend named Giulio, and she led a normal, healthy life, with only the usual dramas of girls her age. She had developed an interest in art history that likely would have made Joyce happy.

Buffy didn’t ask Spike about himself. She knew enough from what Malcolm had told her. They strolled through the balmy night air up a slight rise, past a field where cows mooed at them, and then up again, this time more steeply. At the top, they sat on a crumbling stone wall. Buffy kicked her heels against it, making dull little thudding noises.

“Spike,” she began, and he knew he wasn’t going to like whatever she was about to say. “If Giles is…is murdering people, you know we can’t just let that go.”

“I know. That’s why I came for help, innit?”

“But what if we can’t help? What if this is just him, you know? He has a midlife crisis, and instead of a Corvette and a hot blonde he goes all Ted Bundy.”

“He already had a hot blond,” Spike growled, although doubtless his hair was mostly back to its natural color now.

She bumped her shoulder into his. “You know what I mean.”

“Look, I know Rupert’s white hat has been a bit gray at times, but this isn’t him. There are plenty of times he would have staked me without a second thought, but he’d never have tortured me.” He could hear the anguish in his own voice and he tried to calm himself. “Rupert’s always been a bit of an ends-justify-the-means type, but he never fancied hurting others just for the sake of hurting them.”

She leaned against him. She felt exactly as he remembered her, strong and angular, hot as the fire that had consumed him below Sunnydale. Her hair tickled his neck and he wondered how she wore it now.

“You really do love Giles, don’t you? Like you loved Drusilla and me.”

“I do, but it’s different with the soul settled inside me. I did love you, you know.”

“I know.”

“And Dru, too. Hell, I even loved the pouf, but if you repeat that to anyone I’ll drain you.”

She chuckled. “I’ll take your secret to my grave. Maybe several times.”

“But when I got the soul back, it took some time to get used to it, to…to reconcile it with the demon. I never had time for that with you, not with the First and all that nonsense we were facing. But later, I…well, I grew up, I expect. Pet, to me he’s like oxygen is to you, like your heartbeat. He’s…he’s what keeps me going, yeah?” He made a disgusted snort. “And I’m still a piss-poor poet, but you know what I mean.”

“Yeah. I do, Spike.”

“So when I say this isn’t really him, do you believe me?”

“I believe you. And we’re gonna do whatever we can to get him straightened out. I love him, too, you know. He’s…he’s family. He’s more of a father to me than my real dad ever was.” She laughed. “I suppose that makes you my stepmom.”

Spike mock-growled, but the truth was, he wasn’t at all upset to be included as a family member. “If I am a stepmother, I expect I’m the evil sort.”

“Well, it’s probably been a while since you carved anyone’s heart out, Spike, so that’s okay. We don’t have to take the analogy too far.”

“And Doughnut Boy’s no Prince Charming, is he?”

She poked him hard between the ribs. “He is so.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the sounds of the cows below them and the very slight swish of the breeze.

“Spike, if we can’t fix Giles….”

“I know. I’ll end it myself. Or try, anyhow. He’s bloody strong.” He didn’t add the rest, didn’t tell her that if Rupert had to die, Spike would give his own life attempting to kill the man himself, or would greet the sunrise shortly after. At that point, it wouldn’t matter to him which it was.

Buffy squeezed Spike’s knee. “Think of all the apocalypses we’ve stopped. I’m sure we can handle one little high school librarian.”

 

***

 

Spike’s room was quite nice. Not very large, but cozy. It took up half of one floor of the rounded tower, so that it had one straight wall with a door leading to the stairs, and one curved one. The arrow slits were thin and deep enough that Spike didn’t have to worry about sunshine, yet he could still hear and smell the world outside. There was a very thick carpet on the stone floor, and a narrow bed with a tall mattress. The nearest bath or washbasin was down three flights of stairs, but when Buffy took him to his room she pointed out the water pitcher and bowl atop the chest of drawers, and she gave him three hot water bottles to tuck into bed with him, to take away the chill. The tower had no electricity, either, but he didn’t need lights, and someone had charged his iPod for him. The tower was well away from where the Slayers slept, which was a relief to him. He liked the room, and lay back in the bed for some time, just listening to the wind.

If any ghosts appeared, he didn’t notice.

Just as he was waking up the following evening, there was a soft knock at his door. He pulled on his jeans and tee and wished he had some clean clothes. Then he opened the door, which he’d bolted before he went to sleep.

“Hi, Spike.” It was Willow. “Brought you some blood. Do you want some human munchies, too? I can get you some.”

“No, blood’s fine. Thank you.” She sat beside him on the bed while he drank from an oversized plastic cup. Not surprisingly, the blood was sheep. Not his favorite, but he’d manage.

“So I’ve been looking stuff up. It’s a lot harder to transport someone when they’re not with you, and when you don’t have any of their stuff. But it can be done. I just need a few supplies. I’ll get them in the morning and then we’ll be good to go.”

“Thanks, love.”

“Do you want to walk around a little? I could take you for a tour of the castle, or maybe you want to go for a drive? There are a couple of pubs in town.”

He thought about it for a moment and then shook his head. He felt too drained to do anything. “I’ll just stay in here. But perhaps when you’re shopping tomorrow you could find me another set of clothing. And some boots.”

“Sure! They’re probably not so much with the Docs here—it’s a pretty small town—but I’ll find you something.”

“As long as they’re not wellies.”

She wrote down his sizes and then took the empty cup from him. And then, to his surprise, she bent over and gave him a little kiss on the cheek. She smelled nice, like mint and lavender. “You weren’t around when I went postal, were you?” she asked.

 “No.” He’d been in Africa then, fighting for his soul.

“It wasn’t pretty. I was so angry. I hurt people I loved, I…well, you’ve heard what I did to Warren Mears.”

Spike shuddered and nodded. He hadn’t been upset to have missed that little show.

“I almost ended the world, Spike. I could have done it, I really could. Do you know what stopped me?”

“Xander Harris.” He still couldn’t quite believe the whelp had saved the world, but there you go. You stay on the earth long enough and you see everything.

“Yep. Because he loves me.” She kissed him again. “Just like you love Giles.”

And with those words of wisdom, if that’s what they were meant to be, she left him alone.

 

***

 

“What the bloody hell is going on here?” McCreary’s bellow was so loud that Spike wanted to cover his ears. He didn’t, though, but instead concentrated on looking menacing.

“You!” the Watcher spluttered, most likely as he caught sight of Spike. “And you two!” That would be Malcolm and Bagley. “I’ll have you finally dusted over this, you, you _obscenity_!” It sounded as if he might be stomping towards Spike, but Willow mumbled a soft word or two and McCreary collapsed to the floor with a noisy _oof_!

“You don’t get to threaten my friends in my house, asshole,” said Buffy. “Now listen up. Will’s gonna lift the mouth mojo in a sec, and then you’re gonna answer Spike’s questions. And if you’re feeling like holding back, let me point out I’ve got a vampire, a witch, and a castleful of Slayers here, and we’d be happy to go medieval on your ass.”

Spike had to bite at his cheek. It was hard to look scary when you were grinning.

Spike took a step forward and decided this might be faster, as well as more fun, if he vamped out. So he slid into gameface, relishing the delicious feeling of his fangs and heavy brows. “Right, then. You can begin by telling us why you rang Rupert several months ago.”

Willow muttered again, and McCreary immediately began to yell. “What are you people on about? I’ll report you all to the Council! I’ll—“

Spike knelt and shot out his hand and wrapped his palm around McCreary’s scrawny neck. “You’ll answer my questions. Or perhaps I ought to turn you, first? Let you know what it feels like to have a demon inside.”

He could feel the man swallow. “My discussion with Giles is none of your affair.”

“Oh, I rather think it is.” Spike squeezed McCreary’s neck a bit tighter and then loosened it.

“Fine. You needn’t act like barbarians about it, you know.”

Spike just cocked his eyebrow and waited.

“When Giles was much younger, he and some others got involved with things they shouldn’t have. Dark magics.”

“Yeah, we know that, old man.”

“They summoned a demon, an especially nasty one.”

“Eyghon,” Buffy interrupted. “We met. Ugly bat-eared creep. Angel killed it.”

“Yes, well, Eyghon had a mate. Moghon.”

“Ew. Well, love is blind, I guess. And what does the bride of Eyghon have to do with Giles?”

“It’s not female. These demons don’t have sexes the way humans do, you see, they—“

“Skip the birds and the demons talk,” Xander said. “Just tell us why you called Giles.”

“I was informed via a confidential source that some foolish youths were messing about and managed to summon Moghon. One of them was the nephew of one of Giles’s former comrades and discovered his uncle’s notes. Moghon possessed one of the boys and was wreaking havoc.”

“So you rang Rupert,” Spike said.

“He was best equipped to deal with the monster, given his prior experiences. Besides, it likely would have come for him anyway. He still carries Eyghon’s tattoo and so would be vulnerable, and also I believe the demon was seeking revenge for Eyghon’s demise.”

Surprisingly, it was Malcolm who spoke next, and he sounded angrier than Spike had ever heard him. “Why didn’t you tell the Council? You just sent Mr. Giles in there all alone when he could have had us to back him up.”

McCreary cleared his throat nervously. “Yes. But this whole matter was rather an embarrassment, you see, and I thought it was best that word not get out to the Council at large.”

“An embarrassment to whom?” Spike demanded. When McCreary didn’t answer, Spike again tightened his grip on the man’s throat.

“To me!” McCreary choked. “An embarrassment to me, all right? The boy who discovered the notes is my son, my youngest. Jack. He didn’t mean any harm, really, just youthful curiosity—“

“Shut it. He got the notes from dear old dad, did he?”

McCreary paused for a moment, as if he were going to deny it, and then sighed and nodded as well as Spike’s hand allowed. “My beloved Doris was the younger sister of that execrable man Ethan Rayne. When Ethan disappeared—I believe some of you had a hand in that—I took possession of his effects and I found the notes. I’d meant to destroy them, but they were rather interesting, and I thought perhaps they might merit studying someday. So I locked them away. Jack was snooping about and he found them.”

Spike let go of the Watcher and stood. If he didn’t put some distance between them, he was very much in danger of just snapping the bastard’s neck. So he backed up several paces and glared down at McCreary through his scarred eyes. “You fuck up and keep the bloody notes, wanker junior sticks his nose where it doesn’t belong, and you drag Rupert into it, knowing he’s vulnerable to this Moghon git. And then when Rupert gets into trouble cleaning up your mess, you don’t tell anyone, but just scarper off to Asia. I ought to hang you by your own intestines.”

“I wanted to keep my Jack safe, that’s all. So I took him to China with me. Oh, God, you haven’t brought him here as well, have you? Please! He’s just a boy, really.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Your stupid offspring is still far away, out of danger.”

Beside him, Buffy said, “I know he’s human, Spike, but if you want to get physical with him, none of us is going to stop you.”

It was very, very tempting. But violence wouldn’t solve anything, and wouldn’t even make Spike feel any better. Besides, perhaps McCreary could tell them how to rescue Rupert. Spike allowed his face to shift back to human because it was a bit easier to stay clear-headed that way. He reached out and gave Buffy a grateful little squeeze on the shoulder, and then moved closer to McCreary again. “Right, then. So Rupert’s possessed, yeah?”

McCreary’s voice was a bit tremulous. “Partially. These demons are best able to take over unconscious people, or those who bear the demons’ marks. Giles has Eyghon’s tattoo, not Moghon’s. They’re quite similar, but not identical. So Moghon could take hold in Giles, but would have difficulty exerting complete control. That would take time—weeks, even months, perhaps.”

“Is Rupert aware of what’s happening to him?”

“I don’t know. I suspect that during its incomplete possession the demon operates by latching onto feelings and impulses that Giles already had and intensifying them. Twisting them.”

“How do we kill the fucker?”

“If you kill the host, the demon will die.”

Spike sank to his knees and grabbed McCreary’s throat again. He put his face very, very close to the man’s, giving him a very personal view of Spike. He again brought his demon face to the fore. “How do we kill it without harming Rupert?” he snarled.

“I…I don’t know.”

Spike really was about to just rip out McCreary’s throat, but Buffy spoke softly just behind him. “Spike, we killed Eyghon, remember? I think I know how to get rid of this one.”

Spike let his fingernails dig into McCreary’s neck just enough so Spike could smell the man’s blood, and then he let go and stood again. “We don’t need him anymore, do we?”

Malcolm said, “Are you going to kill him? We can’t just send him back to the Council, can we? Who knows what he’ll tell them.”

Spike took a deep breath. “I used to enjoy murdering humans. Now it doesn’t set so well.”

Very quietly, Mal said, “I’ll do it, if you want.”

“Why, you little—“ McCreary began, but Willow silenced him with her spell again.

Spike patted Malcolm on the back. “Ta, whelp. No need to sully your conscience with this rubbish, though. Buffy, there must be someplace in this heap where you can secure this worthless pillock.”

“There is! Another benefit of living in an authentic castle—we have a genuine, uh, what do you call that thing, Willow? I can never remember.”

“Oubliette. We have a dungeon with an oubliette. And some of us have been a little anxious to try it out, too.”

Spike smiled, showing all his fangs. “Brilliant.”

[Chapter Eight](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/150496.html)

 


	8.  Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[faith](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/faith), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Faith (8/10)**_  
**Title:** Faith   
**Chapter:** 8 of 10    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.   
**Credits: **The plot bunny is from [](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , the banner and icon are from [](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/profile)[**angelstoy**](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/) , and the betaing is by [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) . I am indebted to you all!   
**Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Faith&filter=all).

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000bdd53/)  
---  
  
**Eight**

 

Spike followed the stairs that led to his room even farther up, until he was standing atop the keep. It was a chill evening and the stone was cold, and he was glad that Willow had brought him a pair of boots. They were plain old workman’s boots, but she said they were black, and they did protect his feet. She’d brought him a coat as well, a long wool affair, and now he drew it about himself as if that would do any good. Then he leaned back against the parapet and tilted his head up. He could just make out the brightness of the moon.

“Wishing you were a werewolf instead?”

Spike didn’t jump at the voice; he’d heard the footsteps approaching for ages. “Might be nice to have a lovely howl now and then.”

Buffy walked closer and leaned beside him. “Nobody said you couldn’t. Vampires can howl, too. Heck, humans can howl. I know I’m tempted sometimes.”

Instead of replying, he pursed his lips and opened his throat, and let loose with a long, eerie wail. It didn’t sound like a wolf, but it certainly didn’t sound human. It felt good, so he did it again, and then Buffy joined him, adding her own higher, lighter cry to his. When they stopped to catch their breaths, Spike just barely caught an answering howl, faint as a dream, from very far away. “Sounds like you have that wolf somewhere after all, pet.”

“Yeah?” She turned around to stare through the crenellation into the darkness. “Maybe it’s Oz. I’m always thinking that he’ll show up someday.”

He listened a while longer, but the wolf was silent. “Did you lock the Watcher away?”

“We did. He wasn’t too happy about it. Not exactly four-star accommodations down there. And Willow warded it, too, so he can’t do any magical funny business.”

“Good.” He turned too, although of course he could see nothing at all. “So how do we get rid of the thing?”

“That creep Ethan Rayne gave me the same tattoo that Giles has. He wanted Eyghon to inhabit me.”

Spike thought. “You don’t have a tattoo.”

“Got it removed. Remember that little scar on the back of my neck?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Mom would’ve freaked if she saw it.”

Spike had a mental image of Joyce discovering a tattoo on Buffy’s skin, and shivered.

“So anyway,” Buffy continued, “the plan was Eyghon in me. But we kind of screwed things up for Ethan, and Eyghon ended up in Angel instead. Eyghon and Angel had some kind of internal demon knockdown, which Angel won. Obviously.”

“And the pouf probably crowed about it for ages.”

Buffy punched him in the arm. “The point is, evil demon dead, but everyone else still alive. Or, in Angel’s case, alive-ish.”

“So all we have to do is lure Moghon into me somehow.”

“Spike, it’s risky. If Moghon wins—“

“If it wins, then you stake me, and that ends it, yeah?”

“Yes, but it ends _you,_ too.”

He laughed. “Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?” He turned so he was facing her. “I want that thing out of him, love. If I have to face final death to do that, I will. Not worth going on without him anyway.”

“Oh, Spike.” She briefly cupped her hand around his cheek. He had to force back tears at the tenderness of her voice and touch.

He turned away from her so that she was behind him. “How do I entice Moghon?”

“The tattoo, I guess. I have a photo of the one I had. We could work from that.”

Spike nodded. “I always did fancy a tat.”

 

***

 

It wasn’t the image he would have chosen. He’d always thought a railroad spike might be appropriate. Perhaps even something like the pouf’s Aurelius mark. According to Xander, this thing looked like some sort of combination of a devil, a monkey, and a phallic symbol. Well, he could have it removed later. If he survived. And at least he didn’t have to look at it.

One of the Slayers, a short girl named Kioni who had a heavy Deep South drawl, apparently also had some experience at tattooing. She sat Spike down on a comfortable armchair in the room the Slayers used as a lounge and rolled up his right sleeve. First she drew the design on his skin with a pen—it tickled a bit—and then she started up her tattoo gun and inked it in. It didn’t take very long.

Xander watched as she worked. “Sure you don’t want a butterfly or hummingbird instead?”

“Sod off,” Spike responded without heat.

“Kioni did a couple tats for me, you know. Not demon callers, though. I attract enough demony types as it is.”

“So what, then? Got yourself a tramp stamp, did you?”

“Nope. I have an eye on my chest, over my heart. You know, sort of a replacement for the one I lost. And on my right shoulder I have some names. Jesse. Anya. Joyce. Um…Spike.”

“What?”

“It’s one of the names. Spike.”

Spike realized his mouth was hanging open. “You have my name tattooed on your shoulder?”

“Um, yeah. ‘Cause the whole thing was friends I’d lost. And at the time, we all thought you were more permanently dead. Then we found out you weren’t, but taking your name away would kinda ruin the design, so it stays. And that’s okay, ‘cause you’re still dead.”

“But…we weren’t mates, Harris. We hated each other, mostly. Tried to kill one another.”

“Yeah. Oddly enough, most of my friends have tried to kill me at some point. Anyway, I didn’t hate you at the end there, and you saved my other eye, saved the world, I guess. I figured that was worth a few sticks of a needle.”

Xander bloody Harris was not going to make Spike bloody cry. It was the bit of pain from the tattoo gun that was making tears prickle at his eyes, that was all.

 

***

 

When Spike went to bed that morning, he couldn’t help but rub at his bicep. He was already completely mended, of course, but it was almost as if he could still feel the needle, as if he’d been branded rather than inked. It was completely psychosomatic, but it felt perfectly real. He wished he still smoked—it would keep his fingers busy—but he hadn’t had a fag in months, and he reckoned the nearest one to here was several sunny miles away.

His left hand moved restlessly from arm to chest, and then he discovered his fingers were toying with his nipples, stroking and pinching at them. For the first time in ages, he felt the stirrings of his libido and, seemingly of its own accord, his hand wandered farther down, tracing the planes of his abdomen, following the lines of his scars, dipping into the slight hollow of his belly, scratching and tickling at the sparse hairs at his groin, and finally grasping his hardening cock.

He spread his legs and let his lids flutter closed. His thumb followed the contours of the small scars that lined his dick, then he wrapped his palm around his remaining ball. He moved even farther down then, his fingertips tracing his perineum lightly, until his middle finger circled around his puckered opening and intruded very slightly inside. He imagined that the finger was warmer, broader, slightly calloused from playing a guitar and doing a bit of labor of the kind William Pratt never had during his lifetime.

When Spike moved his hand back up to his cock, he was fully erect, the soft crown revealed from under the foreskin and already slightly damp. He thought about how Rupert would tie him down on the bed sometimes, Spike held spread-eagled by soft-lined fetters he could easily break if he chose to do so. Rupert would tickle and stroke and nibble and lick at Spike for what felt like hours, teasing him, never quite touching him exactly as Spike craved, until Spike would be driven nearly mad with need, and he’d swear and beg and almost sob as Rupert chuckled cruelly into the hollow beneath Spike’s hipbone. Just when Spike would be on the brink of pulling free of the cuffs—and Rupert always seemed to know exactly when that moment was—Rupert would engulf Spike’s cock in his mouth and stick a single slicked finger in Spike’s hole, and Spike would come so hard he often broke the manacles after all.

Afterward, as Spike still floated in a post-orgasmic haze, Rupert would unlock whatever remained of the cuffs and draw Spike’s body into his arms, and they’d kiss and fondle one another until Spike was hard and hungry again. Spike would roll over on his stomach then, and wave his arse at Rupert, or else Rupert would push Spike onto his back and fold Spike’s legs back. Rupert would sink into Spike as slowly as they could stand it, and begin deep, unhurried thrusting. Rupert’s sweat would drip onto Spike, their panting would become a harsh duet. And then, if Spike was very lucky, Rupert might bite him a bit, dull human teeth pinching at the thin skin of Spike’s neck until Spike cried out and came again. The second orgasm would be less earth-shaking than the first but sweeter, especially since it would be closely followed by Rupert’s climax as well.

Alone in his bed like a fairy tale princess trapped in a tower, Spike cried out and came, covering his hand and stomach with his own sticky spend.

 

***

 

The dream was in some senses a familiar one—Spike skulked down a street in pursuit of prey. The white sign affixed to a wall told him the locale was customary as well: “Berwick Street, W1, City of Westminster,” it proclaimed.

But there were oddities as well. For one thing, the shop windows and the cars rumbling by clearly indicated that this dream was taking place in the present time. When Spike dreamt of London, it was usually the city in its Victorian glory that he visited. He hadn’t actually seen the city since the 1970s, so this modern version must be some amalgam of his memories of other cities as well as the information he’d gleaned more recently from his other senses.

Even stranger, though, was the fact that it was daytime. Yes, the sky was a dull gray color, but there was no question that the sun was up, and that it wasn’t really overcast enough to offer protection from incineration. Spike rarely dreamt of the sun. Apart from those moments he’d wasted when he’d possessed the Gem of Amara, and the times he’d been safe behind Wolfram &amp; Hart’s necrotinted glass, Spike had caught only brief glances of the sun over the past century. He’d certainly never hunted anyone under its rays, nor had he dreamt of doing so.

In the dream, Spike walked down the pavement, occasionally moving around people coming the other direction. His eyes were on a figure up ahead, a thin man with brown hair, who wore a charcoal-colored raincoat. The man was carrying a plastic shopping bag in one hand and an umbrella in the other, and he was walking quickly, as if he were in a hurry to get home. He turned a corner onto a side street and then so did Spike. The man walked a few blocks more and ascended the short flight of stairs in front of a white building. He juggled a moment with his parcel and umbrella before pulling out a key, which he used to unlock the door. Spike stopped and hid himself behind the corner of a building as the man went inside.

As Spike stood there, peering around the rough bricks, he became aware of something else strange: his heart was beating. He hadn’t felt that steady thump within himself for so very long that he’d forgotten what it felt like, and he also hadn’t recalled the slightly dizzying sensation of his own blood whooshing through his veins. He was so distracted by the novelty of it, in fact, that he didn’t notice that he’d moved and was now standing at the door where the man had entered.

A hand that was heavier and tanner than his own, with darker hairs than his sprinkled across it, fumbled at the doorknob for a moment, but it was locked. So he rammed into the door with his shoulder and it gave easily. He entered a slightly shabby foyer with worn carpeting underfoot and a dusty chandelier overhead. He muttered a few words of a language he’d never heard before. A small glowing light appeared in front of him; it reminded him absurdly of Tinkerbell. The light floated up a stairway, then up some more, until they were on the third floor. The hallway up there was dimly lit and the ceiling was low. There was a small table at the end with a basket of artificial flowers. Each side of the hall had two doors, identical except for the letter affixed to each. The light paused in front of B.

Spike put his ear to the door and listened carefully. The sound of running water came from inside. Spike glanced about quickly, saw that the hall was otherwise empty, and smashed his shoulder into this door as well. As soon as the door opened, he ran inside. The man he’d been following was standing in a kitchenette, a metal saucepan in one hand and his mouth hanging open. The sink was running behind him.

“Ripper!” he said. He might have tried to say something else, but it was too late—Spike had tackled him, sending the smaller man sprawling to the floor with Spike on top. The pan clattered away. Spike knelt on his chest and pressed a hand firmly against the man’s mouth. Then, as the man bucked ineffectually beneath him and stared up at him with frantic, pleading eyes, Spike pulled a knife from his boot and drew it cleanly across the man’s throat.

The sight of the blood bubbling out filled him with dark glee, but even better was watching the life drain from his victim’s face and his eyes grow dull. He stood, still straddling the man, and looked down at the corpse. In a voice not his own, and yet nearly as familiar, he said, “Goodbye, Ethan.”

 

***

 

Spike found Malcolm in the lounge, along with Bagley and Buffy and Xander and Willow, and a sprinkling of Slayers as well. They were all in the midst of a noisy, unhappy conversation when he burst in the door, and for a moment after his entry there was surprised silence. It was Xander who spoke first, asking, “What’s the matter, Spike? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Although I guess the seeing part is impossible and the ghost part probably wouldn’t give you much of a wiggins.”

Spike ignored him. “I need one of you to tell me about this bloody tattoo. Does it give me the chance to have some sort of…mind-meld or something with the sodding demon?”

“Actually, yes,” Malcolm said. “I’ve been doing a bit of research. Singh at HQ faxed me quite a lot about Eyghon and Moghon and their marks. Those who bear the marks can quite often psychically communicate with one another and the demon, primarily in dreams. That’s partly why Eyghon was called The Sleepwalker.”

“Bloody hell,” Spike said, and collapsed into the nearest chair.

“What is it, sweetie?” Willow walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.

He shook his head. He needed to mull things over a bit before he shared his dream with them. “What were you lot in such a state over, anyhow?”

“We’ve just had some news from London,” Bagley said. “Ethan Rayne’s been murdered.”

 

[Chapter Nine](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/150985.html)

 


	9.  Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[faith](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/faith), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Faith (9/10)**_  
**Title:** Faith   
**Chapter:** 9 of 10    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.   
**Credits: **The plot bunny is from [](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , the banner and icon are from [](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/profile)[**angelstoy**](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/) , and the betaing is by [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) . I am indebted to you all!   
**Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Faith&filter=all).

**We'll be gone most of tomorrow, so I'm posting this early. :-)**

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000bdd53/)  
---  
  
**Nine**

 

Some attempts were made to devise a scheme, but Spike didn’t pay them any mind. He was never much for plans anyhow, and anything this lot came up with was going to be based on nothing more than guesses and conjecture. But they nattered on and he sat there, alternating sips of sheep’s blood with sips of whiskey, and thinking about demons.

At last the group seemed to reach some sort of consensus. Buffy and Xander were sitting on the rug near Spike, their arms around each other, and Buffy poked at Spike’s leg until he paid attention. “You got the plan, Spike?”

“What plan? You drive me to Bath and I confront Rupert. I catch Moghon and kill it. In case I fail, you lot are waiting with a stake, a gun, and…what? Anti-demon spray?”

She slapped his calf. “No spray. Just an exorcism spell to keep it from crawling into anyone else.”

“Lovely. Let’s go.”

“We thought it’d be best to leave in the morning. That’ll get us there by sundown, in case the excitement happens outside.”

Spike nodded. Anxious as he was to get going, that bit made sense. “And you’re certain he’ll be there?”

Malcolm said, “He’s there now. I still have my scrying spell operating.”

“Good.”

The party broke up shortly after that. It was dark out, and although Spike didn’t much fancy tromping about through pastures, he was too restless to sit in front of the telly. A few of the Slayers offered to spar with him—they had a training room set up in what once might have been a ballroom of some kind—but they seemed a bit too eager for his taste, and he was too distracted. He didn’t want to get too beat up before facing Moghon.

So Spike wandered about the inside of the castle instead. It was a sprawling place, obviously added onto many times over the centuries. Spike reckoned Xander and his handyman Slayers could easily spend the rest of their lives repairing the place. At one point he felt an odd chill over his skin that made him wonder if the ghost rumors might not be true, but he’d met up with ghosts before and there wasn’t much they could do to him.

He was in a particularly desolate-feeling bit of the castle when he found the stairs that led down to what he expected was the dungeon. He followed them down, feeling the rough stone walls beneath his fingers. Sconces were set into the walls at regular intervals and torches had been set into them, but of course he had no need for those.

A stout door was bolted shut at the bottom of the stairs. Spike opened it and then stood in what felt like a large open space, trying to determine which way to go. In the end he followed his nose—the smell of human sweat and excretion led him firmly in one direction. Soon he could hear a heartbeat as well, which sped up as he approached.

“Hey! Let me out of here at once!”

The voice was coming from almost below Spike’s feet. He felt about with his foot and discovered an iron grating perhaps eight feet in diameter. So Willow and Buffy had been serious about the oubliette.

“If you don’t set me free—“

“Oh, sod off,” Spike said. “You’re hardly in any position to threaten anyone.”

“_You_.” McCreary spit out the word as if it were venom. “Claiming to be reformed, and then throwing people into bloody dungeons!”

“If I weren’t reformed, I’d have just killed you, mate. Or perhaps I’d have turned you instead. Angelus used to do that, now and then, with humans he held a particular grudge against. You can have so much more fun torturing the undead, you know. We’re much more durable.”

McCreary sputtered wordlessly from his hole in the ground.

Spike leaned against the slightly damp wall. “I’m thinking you might have some tips to offer me on killing Maghon.”

“If I did know anything, why would I tell you, monster?”

“Because, one, if Maghon’s dust then junior—what was his name?”

“Jack.”

“Ah, yes. Until the demon’s dead, Jackie’s in danger, isn’t he? And two, if you don’t spill, I can have the witch poof the boy here as easily as she brought you. Or perhaps she could send him straight to Rupert. I’ll have to ask.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I? Unrepentant fiend, didn’t you call me?”

McCreary paced back and forth in the hole, three steps in each direction. He swore and threw something metallic. Spike expected it was too much to hope that the git had tossed his waste bucket against the wall. When McCreary stopped moving, he huffed out an angry breath. “Even if I told you something, how do I know you wouldn’t feed my son to that thing anyway?”

“Reckon you’ll just have to have faith in me.”

McCreary was quiet for so long that Spike was ready to give up. Finally, though, in such a low voice that Spike had to strain to hear, he said, “It’s very strong.”

“Yeah. Got that already.”

“Eyghon could force its host into its own visage. Moghon can’t, but it can feed on the power of others around it.”

“What kind of power?”

“Magic, idiot.”

Spike considered that for a moment. “So it could draw from a witch?”

“As long as she were nearby, yes. And she would be proportionately weakened. But it can draw from other supernatural creatures as well—shapeshifters, demons, Slayers, all of that lot.”

“Including vampires,” Spike said thoughtfully.

“Of course.”

Well, that explained why Rupert had been so strong and Spike so sodding weak. But it meant that defeating Moghon without being dusted himself was going to be very difficult. “All right, so the wanker’s tough. Any other words of wisdom?”

“Remember what I said? The demon is using Giles’s own urges and desires to its own ends. You might be able to exploit that.”

Spike nodded, even though McCreary likely couldn’t see him. “Right, then. Anything else?”

“No. Only…please. Keep my son safe.”

 

***

 

The drive back to Bath was considerably more crowded. Everyone except Spike and Buffy took turns driving—Xander and Willow were somewhat less than tactful in their insistence that the Slayer not get behind the wheel. With only one additional seat in the cab, Spike always had three people crammed into the back of the lorry with him. The blankets made it relatively comfortable, but he was too keyed up to sleep, and he discovered to his disgust that his iPod battery was dead. So he propped his head on pillows and listened as the others talked quietly about some of their recent adventures. At their urging, he told a few tales of his own, both from his Big Bad days and from his time in LA with Angel. Bagley seemed amazed by them all and asked polite questions while revealing bits about himself as well. Somewhere around Lancaster, Spike concluded that he quite liked the bloke, even if he was a Watcher. That was good—he’d have hated for Mal to fall for a bloody bastard.

The chatter tapered off and then faded away entirely as they neared Bath. It was still a bit too early, actually—sunset was over an hour away—so they pulled off the motorway and the humans had a picnic dinner of sorts, all squashed into the back of the lorry. Buffy dug around in her duffel bag and came out with a thermos, which she handed to Spike.

“’M not hungry, love.”

“Oh, but you have to have this. It’s a fabulous parting gift from the girls.”

Spike frowned quizzically. But when he unscrewed the top, the scent that wafted out made him gasp. “Slayer’s blood!”

“Yep.”

“But…but…how…where….”

“He’s speechless, Buff,” Xander said. “I didn’t think it was possible.”

Buffy clasped Spike’s shoulder. “Angel told me once that Slayer’s blood is like…I don’t know. Vampire Red Bull.”

Spike nodded. “With a good dose of Viagra mixed in.”

“Well, I took up a collection at the office. Everyone contributed a little. It was the girls’ way of wishing you luck, Spike. And, uh, everybody wanted me to tell you something else, too. If things go screwy and…well, you need a place to stay, you’re welcome with us. We’d like to have you.”

Spike let out a long, slow breath. The realization hit him that the five warm bodies pressed near his cold one were his friends. Not just because he was Rupert’s lover, either. He’d so rarely had friends before that the insight struck him like a speeding train, and if his heart had been beating it likely would have stopped.

“Cheers,” he mumbled, and took a swallow from the thermos. “Oh, bloody _hell_,” he moaned. He felt his eyelids flutter and then he drank the rest in a single greedy draught.

 

 

***

 

They dropped him off at the end of the lane that led to Rupert’s house. They’d wanted to come closer, but the last thing Spike wanted was for Moghon to draw from Buffy’s and Willow’s power as well as his own. Malcolm adjusted his scrying spell so that it would track Spike’s movements about the house. If Spike got into trouble, they could get up the drive in a few minutes. They all were well aware that that might very well be a few minutes too late, but they had few other options.

The drive felt achingly familiar under Spike’s feet, as if he were coming home. Until things had gone wrong, this place had felt more like home than any place had since he was alive. Now, well…now he wasn’t certain he’d ever feel like that again. Even assuming he survived the night.

A car was parked in front of the house. Not Rupert’s little Mini, but something longer and sleeker. He felt along the bonnet and couldn’t help but chuckle. Jaguar. Perhaps Rupert really was having that midlife crisis.

The front door was unlocked, but then, it usually was. Spike half-expected to find that his invite had been revoked, but he passed into the house without meeting any resistance. He paused in the entryway and strained his ears. Ah, the sound of rustling paper. Rupert was in the library.

After his little talk with McCreary, he and the others had discussed the best way for him to approach Rupert. Spike needed to get as close to him as possible without raising Rupert’s—or Moghon’s—defenses. So now Spike silently toed off his boots and then stripped off his jeans and t-shirt, so the only thing he was wearing were the leather armbands Willow had somehow procured for him and the matching collar around his neck. The primary purpose of the bondage gear was to camouflage the tattoo, but it might also help get Rupert in the right frame of mind.

Spike padded down the hall until he came to the library. The door was open. He could smell whiskey and cigarettes, and another scent that wasn’t Rupert at all. It was what he’d tasted when Rupert had used him while he was captive, but now it was much stronger. It was Moghon’s own odor, he reckoned.

Spike purposely made a small noise as he entered the doorway. By the answering hiss of breath and the rapid increase in Rupert’s heart rate, he knew he’d been seen. Spike gracefully folded to his knees and bowed so deeply his forehead was touching the smooth wooden floor. He clasped his hands behind his back and waited.

After a silence that seemed to last for weeks, Rupert growled, “What are you doing here?”

Spike kept his voice low and submissive. “Waiting for you to punish me, sir.”

“Punish you? _Punish_ you? After what you’ve done I ought to dust you!”

“If that’s what you want, sir.”

Rupert stood. He only stepped around the desk, though, and didn’t come any closer. Spike fought to remain still, knowing that Rupert’s eyes must be taking in Spike’s subservient posture, the paleness of his back with its ridge of vertebrae, the twin mounds of Spike’s raised arse. “Why are you here, boy?”

“I left because…because I was frightened. You were…. I was hurting.” It wasn’t difficult to sound anguished over it. “But I couldn’t manage without you. I can’t. I’d rather come back here and risk final death than go on without you.” Spike had always been a crap liar, but that was all right, because his words were the complete truth.

Rupert came one step nearer. “You are a very foolish creature.”

“Yes, sir. But I love you, Rupert. You saved me, you believed in me. And I believe in you as well, the way a zealot believes in his god. Please take me back, love. Please.” Spike lifted his face slightly, only so Rupert could see the tears streaming from his clouded eyes. Then he bowed his head again.

“If I keep you, I will lock you in the cellar again, this time with stronger chains.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I will never let you out. I will come down only when I fancy it, and then I’ll beat you and perhaps I’ll fuck you, but you will not be permitted to come.”

“Yes sir.”

Rupert came a bit closer. Now he stood perhaps eight feet away. “I may mutilate you. Chop off your hands and feet to ensure you can’t escape again. Perhaps even castrate you, to remind you always of what you are—my toy to be used as I wish. Not a man.”

“Do whatever you want. But don’t cast me out. Please.”

Rupert closed the gap between them. “Stand up, boy,” he said.

Spike rose, still keeping his head respectfully down. Rupert tilted Spike’s face up by the chin and rubbed at Spike’s cheek with a thumb. “You’re so pretty like this. You’re exquisite when you suffer, you know.” He dropped his hand to Spike’s groin and cupped Spike’s bollock, weighing it in his hand. The familiar touch made Spike’s cock harden at once—the Slayers’ blood likely helped in that regard—and he was glad, because it gave unspoken proof of his continued devotion to the man who handled him. “So pretty,” Rupert repeated.

He brought his hand up again and tugged lightly at Spike’s collar. Then he laced his hands together behind Spike’s neck. He pulled Spike forward and pressed their lips together. His tongue plundered Spike’s mouth, taking possession of it once again.

Ah, possession.

Before Spike could lose track completely of what he was supposed to be about, he raised his own hands from behind his back. He rested them momentarily on Rupert’s shoulders. And then, very, very fast, he tightened them around Rupert’s throat.

Rupert made a startled sound and tried to pull himself away. But Spike held him fast, so that all the man could do was separate their mouths by a few inches. Spike squeezed tighter.

Rupert’s hands scrabbled at Spike’s bare back and shoulders, the nails digging deep furrows in Spike’s flesh. Spike pressed his thumbs into the hollow at Rupert’s neck. He didn’t want to do permanent damage, so he had to take care.

But now Rupert’s hands closed around Spike’s neck as well. It didn’t matter very much—unlike Rupert, Spike could do without the oxygen—but Spike felt his strength rapidly flowing away, like water through a drain, as Rupert became noticeably stronger.

Rupert’s hands clenched even tighter, so tightly that Spike feared that the man would just snap his spine. And then they fell away completely and Rupert’s body collapsed under Spike’s grip, bringing Spike tumbling down on top of him.

Rupert wasn’t breathing.

Spike had just one moment to feel panicked about it, and then something surged into him. It felt like being raped, but the intrusion was in his mind rather than his body.

When Drusilla had turned him, the demon had entered his body when he was already dead, or at least very nearly so. He hadn’t felt the demon’s presence until he rose, and then he _was_ the demon, and the integration was already complete. Although he had William Pratt’s memories, and even some of the human’s personality characteristics, he was no longer that man. It was a bit like a caterpillar becoming a butterfly, only considerably bloodier.

It was only when he went to Africa and won his soul that Spike experienced an imbalance in his component parts, and he’d gone bloody mad over it for a time. The First hadn’t helped matters one bit. But a little time had helped him settle himself. Time plus Buffy’s eventual confidence in him, as well as a bit of accidental psychotherapy courtesy of Robin Wood. The pieces of himself had rejoined into a coherent whole, once again not exactly what he had been before, but a close relative, perhaps. His subsequent death, resurrection, and travel through transdimensional space hadn’t changed that.

Now, though, there was something in him, something truly alien. And as soon as it got inside, it turned on Spike’s own demon.

With a great deal of effort, Spike managed to roll off Rupert. He lolled on his back on the floor and felt as if someone was tearing his brain apart with pickaxes. Moghon raged and roared inside him, trying to destroy everything that was Spike and to make the body its own. As McCreary had warned, Moghon was very strong.

But Spike’s demon was also furious. Moghon had hurt Spike himself, but that was nearly inconsequential. Loads of people had hurt Spike over the decades. No, what incensed the vampire was the knowledge that Moghon had taken over Rupert’s body, had corrupted all that was good in the man, had caused Rupert to commit murder. Had, quite possibly, caused Rupert’s death.

Moghon was strong, but Spike suddenly believed that he was stronger.

He concentrated, channeling all the anger, all the despair he’d felt, every bit of violence he’d suppressed since the bloody Initiative neutered him, every trace of grief over Angel’s final death and Fred’s destruction. He directed it all at Moghon like a laser beam.

Moghon shrieked and then burned away like a vampire in the midday sun. All that was left was Spike, battered, exhausted, but triumphant.

It took several minutes for Spike to rouse enough to check on Rupert. Rupert’s breaths sounded harsh and painful, but he was breathing, and his heartbeat was steady and strong. As Spike pressed his head to Rupert’s chest, Rupert made a horrible sobbing noise and gathered Spike tightly in his arms. “Oh, my boy,” he croaked. “My beautiful, strong, brave boy.”

 

[Chapter 10](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/151249.html)

 


	10.  Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[faith](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/faith), [spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Faith (10/10)**_  
**Title:** Faith   
**Chapter:** 10 of 10    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Sequel to [Trust](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all). Still blind, Spike has settled into a relationship with Giles. And then that relationship begins to go wrong.   
**Credits: **The plot bunny is from [](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , the banner and icon are from [](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/profile)[**angelstoy**](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/) , and the betaing is by [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) . I am indebted to you all!   
**Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post a chapter per day. Comments are adored!

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Faith&filter=all).

**The last chapter. Thank you for reading!**

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000bdd53/)  
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**Ten**

 

The others showed surprising restraint. They waited until the tears had stopped flowing and Spike and Rupert were simply huddled together in an exhausted heap before they entered the room. Rupert didn’t seemed startled by their entrance but perhaps, like Spike, he was too numb to feel much of anything right then. Someone found a blanket and draped it over Spike’s shoulders, while Bagley, who had some medical training, gently examined Rupert’s throat for damage. Spike kept his hand on Rupert’s arm the whole time, half afraid that he’d somehow lose the man if they lost contact. He was relieved when Bagley announced that the neck was only badly bruised.

They moved into the lounge. Someone made tea and, although Rupert apparently still had some blood tucked away in the freezer, Spike drank Earl Grey instead. It was soothing. Rupert was next to him on the couch, their legs touching, sipping at his own tea. Neither of them spoke beyond a monosyllable or two. None of the others had much to say either.

To Spike’s everlasting relief, Xander finally cleared his throat. “It’s, uh, getting kinda late. I think we’ll go find a hotel and—“

“Don’t be stupid,” Rupert said wearily. “There’s plenty of room here and you know where everything is. Stay here.”

“Okay. Thanks, G-Man.”

“Ollie and I ought to go to London,” Malcolm said. “I believe there are some matters there that need sorting. You’ll ring us if you need anything, won’t you?”

Several people answered that they would. Rupert added, “We’ll have a longer discussion later, when…when I’ve recovered a bit.”

The junior Watchers left and the Scoobies wandered upstairs. Spike and Rupert were alone, their thighs pressed together, silent. Rupert slurped at his tea, which was probably cold. When Spike hesitantly leaned over and rested his head on Rupert’s shoulder, Rupert didn’t move away, but his body felt tense.

“Spike…I’m…I’m so very sorry—“

Spike couldn’t stand to hear those words from Rupert’s hoarse vocal cords, and he interrupted with a hand on Rupert’s thigh. “Don’t. I’m knackered and so are you. Let’s get some sleep, yeah?”

“Yes, all right.”

They stood and slowly made their way up the stairs. Spike still had the blanket wrapped around him. He hesitated a bit outside Rupert’s door, uncertain whether Rupert meant for him to come in, but Rupert put an arm around Spike’s waist and gently drew him inside. When the door snicked closed, Spike allowed the blanket to drop to the floor. He crawled into bed and listened as Rupert undressed and then went into the loo to wash up. A few moments later the blankets lifted and Rupert climbed into bed beside him. A click meant the bedside light was off.

Rupert kept a wide space between their bodies, but when Spike reached out and took his hand, Rupert squeezed tightly. That’s how Spike fell asleep, with the sound of Rupert’s heartbeat as his bedtime serenade.

 

***

 

The next day there were questions and answers and endless debates. There were phone calls and books consulted. Spike paid no attention to any of it. He sat in an armchair in the lounge with a bottle of Jack at his side and a blanket over his shoulders, as if he were an invalid. Someone had recharged his iPod, so he listened to that without really listening. Periodically throughout the day people would pass by and touch Spike on the shoulder—Buffy and Willow did so fairly often, and even Xander patted at him a few times. Rupert rarely came near, though, other than to bring him a few mugs of blood with Wheetabix crumbled on top or a cup of hot tea.

Someone fetched pizza for dinner. Spike didn’t eat any, but he sat with the others as they ate, listening to their quiet chatter without saying much himself. Afterward, the humans settled in the lounge to watch something horrible on the telly.

“Rupert,” Spike asked quietly. “Do you still have my Docs?”

“Yes, and your duster as well. They’re in the cupboard by the back door.”

Spike was pleased to know he hadn’t destroyed or discarded them. “Thanks. I’m going for a bit of a stroll, all right?”

“Do you want company?”

Spike shook his head. “Not this time. Need a bit of time alone, I reckon.” He tensed for the reaction.

Rupert sniffed. “All right.”

He trailed behind Spike as Spike fetched his boots and coat, and waited as Spike opened the back door. “Spike?” he said, just before Spike stepped outside.

“Yeah?”

“You will come back, won’t you?”

Spike closed the distance between them and laced his hands across the back of Rupert’s neck, bringing their foreheads together. “I will.”

Everything smelled and felt familiar to Spike as he walked across the damp grass. It even sounded familiar—an owl calling, the leaves rustling in the light breeze, the faraway hum of cars on the motorway. Spike entered the stable, and Mage was in his usual place. The horse whinnied a greeting, evidently holding no grudge over the blood Spike had stolen from him. Spike leaned against his broad neck and stroked his nose. He had a few pats for Atella and Corvus as well before he left.

He wandered up the hill—tripping once or twice over tree roots—and found the crumbling bench. He sat on it and dug in his pockets for non-existent cigarettes.

Before any of this shite happened, his relationship with Rupert had been new, perhaps a bit raw about the edges still. But it had been solid nonetheless, more real than any of his past loves. Sure, he and Dru had been together for a century, but at the beginning there had been the complications of Angelus and Darla, and there had always been her ruined mind and flighty ways, so that holding on to her had been like clutching at tattered lace. And Buffy, well there had been passion there. But he’d known even at the time that she was using him—to punish herself or to ground herself, he was never certain which—and although the shagging might be bloody spectacular, she was his the way her body warmth was his when they lay together, brief and borrowed and ephemeral.

Rupert, though. His love had felt like the ground beneath Spike’s feet. Solid. Always there. Something you could count on to support you. Like tree roots, there had been obstacles, but they were only temporary things, most of them easily avoided with care. Rupert’s love had been his foundation, his world.

What was to become of them now?

Spike propped his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.

And then, very suddenly, he leapt to his feet. Rupert had saved him from whatever dismal fate awaited him as he lay blind and broken in that crap flat Illyria had dumped him in. And Spike had saved him twice now, despite not being able to see a bloody thing. They were a vampire and a Watcher, once bitter enemies, two men with a history of less-than-exemplary relationships. But they had overcome all of that. What they felt for each other was real, and one more bloody demon wasn’t going to destroy it. Spike could save them.

Spike practically flew down the path, he was running so fast. Tree branches whipped at him, stones turned under his feet, and he didn’t bloody care. He burst in the house and dashed to the lounge. He could easily find Rupert by his scent; he was slumped on one of the armchairs with Spike’s abandoned bottle of Jack at his side.

“Spike! What’s the ma—“

Rupert didn’t get a chance to finish his alarmed question as Spike grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. He dragged Rupert behind him. Hearing footsteps behind them, Spike ordered, “You lot stay here.”

He didn’t stop until he and Rupert stood in front of the house. “What is it, Spike? Is something wrong?”

Spike sighed. “No. I just wanted to chat.”

“Oh.” Rupert took a few steps and then, by the sound of it, leaned up against the side of the Jag. Spike heard the small click of a lighter and the inhalation of Rupert’s breath. He held his hand out until Rupert handed him the fag and he took a long drag as Rupert lit another. “Spike, I’m so sorry. The things I did to you—“

“Don’t want apologies, Rupert.”

“What do you want, then?”

“You.” Spike heard the anguish in his own voice. “I want you, Rupert, and nothing else will matter.”

“You…you’ll be better off without me. I don’t deserve you.”

Spike laughed harshly. “Don’t deserve me?”

“I raped you, Spike. I beat you. I kept you chained up in my bloody cellar!”

“I was there, Rupes. Don’t have to remind me.”

Rupert crunched back and forth on the drive. Pacing. “Do you know what else I did? I murdered humans. Some of them were hardly more than children.”

Spike intercepted him and held his arms. “Have you forgotten who I am? William the Bloody, yeah? What do you reckon my body count is?”

“But you’re a _vampire_!”

Spike let him go. “Right, then. ‘M a monster and nothing better is expected of me.”

“You are a demon and you had no soul. You can’t be held responsible for what—“

“Is that what you think? Come on, man. Even Peaches didn’t believe that, and surely you don’t either. Every single person I killed, everyone I hurt—I knew perfectly well what I was doing was wrong. Didn’t bloody care, of course. All I cared about was being fed, getting off. I could have survived with less mayhem. Sometimes even then I made the right choices. Remember when I helped the Slayer stop Angelus from ending the world? When I helped care for the Bit? All the soul did was add guilt to the equation, make the right choices a bit easier to make.”

“Spike, you are a demon with a soul, and you are one of the finest men I’ve met. Brave. Honest. Loyal. Put a demon in me and, soul or not, I become a savage brute, hurting even those I love.” His voice cracked and he turned away.

Spike came up behind him and leaned his chest against Rupert’s broad back. He wound his arms about Rupert’s waist and dug his chin into the man’s shoulder. “I had over a century to get used to my demon, Rupert, and this Moghon was a strong git. I forgive you, if that’s what you need. Please, forgive yourself.”

Rupert squirmed around and embraced Spike. He buried his face in Spike’s hair, knocking his glasses askew. Spike grabbed them and shoved them in his pocket. “Don’t need these now. Even a blind man can see we belong together.”

“Oh, William,” Rupert moaned. “What if I bugger things up again? Everything I did while I was possessed—it was something I _wanted_ to do.”

“You likely will bugger things up. So will I. And then we’ll mend them. You’re good at that, yeah? Mended me. We can sort things together. Or, fuck. We can sod off to a cave somewhere, lock out the world and shag ourselves into oblivion. It doesn’t matter, love. If we’re together, everything will work out.”

Rupert kissed Spike’s neck, making Spike shiver against him. “Is that what you believe, my boy?”

“I have never believed anything as strongly as I believe in us.”

Rupert kissed him again and then gently bit. Spike groaned and bucked his groin into Rupert’s. Rupert shuffled him around until Spike was against the bonnet of the car, then bent him back so Spike’s weight was supported by the Jag, his legs widely spread and Rupert between them. They kissed properly for the first time in many months and it was as if they combined the passion of all those missing snogs into one that was hard and furious and hot as fire. As they kissed, their hands wandered restlessly over each other’s clothed bodies and their cocks ground together through two layers of denim.

Rupert pulled roughly away. “I believe in us as well,” he said and bit Spike’s neck, much harder this time, just over Spike’s nonexistent pulse point. Spike howled and came in his pants like a randy teenager.

They were both a bit breathless as Rupert tugged Spike to his feet, and Spike’s knees felt a bit rubbery and weak. “Consider that an appetizer,” Rupert said. “I propose we go lock ourselves in our bedroom and don’t come out again until the next apocalypse.”

That simple word—“our”—and Spike nearly began to bloody cry again. He shook his head. “I say if another apocalypse comes along, we let that lot manage it. We’ve earned a holiday.”

“We have.” Pressed close together, they walked back toward the house. Toward their house. Toward home.

 

_\---fin---_

 


End file.
